


Grayscale

by OpalFruits



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Chapter 2 onward they identify as agender, Don't worry it'll be explained, F/M, Friends to Not-Friends to Friends to Lovers?, Frisk initially indentifies as female, Frisk is aggressively non-agressive, Gen, Gender Issues, Graphic Violence, I'm not kidding, Like a super pacifist, Modern Day, Monster Discrimination/Racism, Other, Sans Is A Dick, Sometimes deliberately, Tags as we go, depictions of torture, gang rivalry, mafia, mob, morality issues, nothing is black and white, you might even say it's... grayscale!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2018-12-12 03:06:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 48,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11728197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalFruits/pseuds/OpalFruits
Summary: “WHAT THE HECK?!” Papyrus yelled, covering his non-existent ears with his hands. “WHO'S SHOOTING AT US?!”“no one we wanna beshootin'the breeze with, i'll bet.”“REALLY? EVEN WHILE WE'RE IN MORTAL PERIL?”Sans grinned. “is there a better time tafire'em out?” His left eye flared cyan-gold while his other socket went dark. “'sides – we're not the ones in peril here.”“THAT IS NOT THE POINT.”-X-This is a story about right, wrong, and the no-man's-land that lies in-between. While Frisk wrestles with the unconditional love they bear their criminal family and their own over-inflated sense of morality, Sans struggles to protect them from the consequences of a gang war he himself may have accidentally started.You know what they say about good intentions. The road to hell is paved with them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Do be mindful of the tags. There are definitely some dark themes up in here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover art by Curiouser Yet Curiouser/SorceressZee: [Their Tumblr](https://sorceresszee.tumblr.com)

                                                           

 

The sound of a door slamming echoed around the house like a gunshot. Frisk, bloodied and bruised, jerked awake with a muffled gasp, the taste of her own salty tears entering her mouth from the gag still tied there.

A second later the door to her room – hers, only by virtue of the fact that she'd been trapped in it for hours _–_ burst open. A tall figure stood in the doorway, a featureless shadow against the light spilling in from the hallway outside. Frisk squeezed her eyes shut against the glare and, without thinking, tried to curl up and hide. The cable ties binding her wrists behind her back bit into her soft skin, making her whimper.

Terrified, she started to cry.

“Get up!” A man's voice, deep and gruff and unkind. Frisk recognised it as belonging to one of the men who'd taken her, the one who'd struck her in the face when she tried to run “On yer feet, dollface! Time fer us ta split.”

She trembled, but did not move.

“I _said_ get up!” A calloused hand grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet forcefully – the strain was almost enough to pop her shoulder from her socket. He put his face right up to hers, his breath ripe with the smell of stale cigarettes and booze. “Y' want more a' what y' got earlier, sweetheart?”

Frisk shook her head. It made her swollen jaw scream in pain.

“Then get fuckin' movin, or-,”

“Oi, Ray!” Another man, this one shorter and holding a gun, ran towards them from down the hall. “No time, man, no time! Motherfucker killed Louis and Phil. Get fuckin' rid a' her an' let's bounce!”

The man – Ray – tightened his grip on Frisk's arm, his thick fingers digging so deeply into her flesh that she was sure he was going to tear into the muscle. She wailed against the cloth in her mouth, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks.

“But Freddy... th-the boss said-,”

Freddy gabbed Frisk from Ray's grasp, pressing the gun into her lower spine. “Who fuckin' cares what the boss said?! We gotta get the hell outta here unless we wanna be as dead as the other two!”

“So we jus' _kill_ her?” Ray spat. “After all the trouble we went ta gettin' her?”

“Better 'n lettin' the monsters have her,” Freddy said grimly. The gun moved from her back to her right temple – the coolness of the metal made her shiver. “Nighty night, brat.” He started to pull the trigger.

Time seemed to freeze, and in that seemingly endless moment Frisk knew she was going to die. And for what? For being _human_. For daring to find a family, a _home_ , out-with her own species.

She didn't bother to struggle. Frisk was small, even for an eight year old, already weak from the beatings, and bound and gagged besides – what hope could she possibly have against two fully grown men? Instead she tensed, waiting for the bang that would end her short life. After everything she'd already endured, maybe it wouldn't even hurt...

“'scuse me, pal,” came a blessedly familiar voice. “but i believe ya have somethin' of mine.”

“Shit!”

Freddy spun, dragging Frisk around with him. At the other end of the hall Sans stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, his face a cruel, grinning mask. His normally pristine white suit was spattered with red, and even as the three of them watched he reached up to flick a thick glob of... _something_ off one of his shoulders.

But worst of all were his eyes, two black empty pits in a skull of bleached bone.

Frisk recoiled. Though he was undoubtedly here to rescue her, this was not the monster she knew. The creature before her bore little resemblance to her funny friend and protector.

This man was a killer.

“i'm a fair man,” said Sans, taking a step forward. “and 'cause i'm a fair man i'm gonna offer ya a trade.”

“St-stay back!” Freddy pressed the gun harder to Frisk's head. “Stay back, freak!”

Sans' left eye flashed blue, just for a second, and the gun flew out of Freddy's hand. It landed with a clatter, too far away for him to pick it up again without first having to let Frisk go. Ray, having gone stiff at Sans' sudden appearance, suddenly came back to life with a curse. He fumbled for his own gun under his cheap nylon suit-jacket.

He never got the chance to draw it.

A single shaft of bone, sharpened to a point and with pinpoint accuracy, shot from the floorboards and pierced straight through Ray's heart. The brightest red Frisk had ever seen erupted from the wound like a fountain, spraying over the walls and the floor and Freddy and her. It was hot on her face, filling her nostrils with the smell of metal and her stomach with acidic bile.

Ray was dead before he hit the ground.

“rude.” Sans never stopped walking, didn't even blink. “where was i? oh yeah. a trade.”

Frisk stared at the inert sack of meat that used to be a man called Ray. She hadn't known him long, or well, and God knows she wasn't exactly sorry to see him go, but there was still something... _awful_ about the scene laid before her. She felt abruptly sick.

“see, that kid ya got there? she's kinda important to the boss an' his missus. an' me, well – i'd hate ta have ta give him bad news, y'know?” Sans stopped a short distance away. He cocked his head, peering at the taller man from under the brim of his hat. “so, here's the deal. you gimme the girl... an' i'll give you a ten second head start. fair?”

Freddy didn't reply. In a burst of panic, he roughly shoved Frisk towards Sans, then turned on his heel and ran.

He didn't get far.

With a motion so smooth it might have been practised, Sans caught Frisk with one arm and drew a handgun from his jacket with the other, barely taking a second to aim before firing. Freddy went down like a tonne of bricks, screaming. He kept right on screaming while Sans removed Frisk's gag and cut her hands free with his pocket knife. He was still screaming when Sans walked over to crouch beside him, examining his face with a curious expression.

“You said ten seconds!”

Sans sucked in a breath, letting it out in a condescending chuckle. “yeah, i did say that, didn't i?”

“You fuckin' _liar_!”

“takes one ta know one, pal.” He took the knife, still in his hand and pressed it against Freddy's throat. “i'll bet ya fed the kid your own pretty little line ta get her ta come with ya in the first place, right? what was it, hmm? sweets? toys? lay it on me, bud – i'm all ears.”

“F-fuck you!”

Fast as a whip, Sans struck out with the blade. Freddy _shrieked_. Sans tossed something into the corner – it was an ear.

“tsk. wrong answer. see, a little birdie told me-,” he swung the tip of the blade in Frisk's direction, “-you were takin' her to see her real parents. that sounds like a lie ta me. so, i wanna know – what were ya _really_ gonna do with her?”

When Freddy didn't answer quick enough, Sans plunged the knife into his left shoulder blade and gave it a twist. The noise the man made under such torture was barely human.

“gettin' impatient here, bud. try ta focus. _where_.” Twist. “ _were_.” Twist. “ _ya takin'._ ” Twist. “ _her_.” Twist.

“ _ **AA-AAARRGGGH**_ _! A-ALBERT'S!”_ Sans paused. Freddy panted, his voice hoarse when he eventually found the strength to continue. “We... we was t-takin' her... to Albert's...”

“the mack, huh?” It would be some time before Frisk learned what a 'mack' was, or the terrible fate she'd narrowly avoided.

“Y-yeah...” Freddy wheezed. “Th-the boss... wanted... ta teach ya all... a lesson...”

“welp. guess we're not the only ones learnin' lessons today.”

Frisk knew what Sans was going to do a moment before he did it. She made a small sound in the back of her throat, an aborted attempt to cry out and stop him, but by then it was already too late. Freddy's blood poured from the fresh slit in his throat like water from a burst pipe.

Frisk learned two very important things that day.

First, the true nature of the world she had unknowingly become embroiled in.

And second, that she wanted no part of it.

 

* * *

 

Sans knew he'd gone too far the instant he turned around and saw the kid.

She was standing right where he left her, frozen in place, face pale and stricken, eyes wide in unspeakable terror. If he looked closely enough, he fancied he could _see_ the slight tremble run through her – tiny, almost imperceptible tremors shivering through her arms as she stared at the mess he'd made.

Coming down from the destructive high brought on by his rage, Sans cast a sheepish glance at his handiwork. It had been a long time since he'd been at all that affected by violence, a long time since he'd felt anything but grim indifference in his work, but seeing the leavings of his fury now, with Frisk here...

 _damn..._ He'd gotten carried away.

It was easy to forget – or perhaps not to  _forget_ , so much as outright ignore – that Frisk was just a kid sometimes. He'd played the part of mobster for so long, often he didn't know how to turn it off. And to be entirely fair, children within the Family were normally desensitised early, in preparation to fill the roles their parents would some day leave behind.

Sans could be forgiven for occasionally forgetting that Frisk was a special case.

Cautiously – the kid looked flighty as hell – Sans picked his way back up the hall, making sure to keep his steps slow and his posture innocuous. She didn't look at him, big brown eyes riveted to the gore before her. He frowned. He hoped this wasn't going to have a lasting effect.

“hey there, kiddo... y' all right?” Gentle as a feather, he placed a hand on her skinny shoulder.

Immediately, and with surprising vehemence, Frisk jerked away. Her gaze snapped to him at long last, and though he would never admit it, Sans was a little hurt at the revulsion he saw there.

“whoa, easy. 's just me – your buddy sans, remember?” He put the hand in his trouser pocket. Then, because it felt right, he said, “i'm sorry y' had ta see that, pal. but those guys... they weren't good people. they were gonna do somethin' terrible ta ya.”

Frisk didn't reply. Just stared and stared, and then, when he was starting to wonder if she was ever going to do anything _but_ stare, she hunched over and vomited on the floor.

If Sans had had a nose, he would have scrunched it. Humans and their disgusting body functions, man.

“that's it. let it out, princess.”

She did. For a solid five minutes.

Sans was actually kind of impressed.

When at last she appeared to be done, still bent over at the waist and panting heavily, but otherwise quite stable, Sans carefully held out his handkerchief. Frisk hesitated, eyes dewy and frightened, but eventually took it and wiped her mouth.

When she tried to hand it back, Sans snorted.

“nah, i'm good. keep it.”

He flicked a glance behind, past the cooling body of the guy whose throat he'd slit and out the window at the end of the hall. The sky was starting to lighten, turning pink at the edges. Frisk had been missing for hours now. The boss would be getting worried.

“c'mon, sweetheart. let's get you home.”

Sans crouched to lift her, hoisting her tiny frame in his arms as delicately as though he were hefting a porcelain doll.

He made a point not to notice how she stiffened in his grip.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_ Ten Years Later _

“how was school, kid?”

Frisk jolted, shocked out of their stupor both by the sudden interruption, and by the lurch as the car went over a pothole at considerable speed. It took them a bewildered second to remember where they were, the last dregs of their daydream fading into the background like so much mist, and then a further second to rein their thoughts into something resembling order. By the time they were ready to form a response, their silence had already stretched into 'awkward' territory.

“F-fine,” they mumbled belatedly, though of course, nothing could be further from the truth.

Almost without meaning to, Frisk's eyes flicked to the opaque reflection in their window. The bruise swelling on their left cheek still stung, an ugly, dark-purple reminder of the day's trials. Their lip was split too, crusted with dried blood, and judging by the scenery flashing by outside – no longer the sombre grey of the city, but lush, green countryside – they'd been out of it long enough that chances were good they had a concussion.

As far as lies went, theirs wasn't even close to convincing.

Upfront, as casual and non-committal as ever, Sans hummed.

Frisk wasn't fooled.

Sans might well be the King of disinterested facades, but they'd known him long enough by now to know a segue when they heard one. It was - they thought - _painfully_ obvious how school had gone. If he'd bothered to ask anyway, despite the evidence staring him in the face, then it could only be because he was building up to something bigger - a lecture in all likelihood. It was just a matter of waiting until he got bored beating around the bush.

Frisk pressed their forehead against the glass. They weren't in the mood for this. Not today.

“If you've got something to say, just say it,” they said irritably.

“alright,” Sans said easily, surprising them with his instant capitulation. “see ya got in another fight, huh?” It wasn't a question, even if it sounded like one.

Frisk sighed, already weary from an argument that hadn't even technically started yet. “ _I_ wasn't fighting.”

They never did, for what little difference it made.

St. Ebott's Academy was a private school for both humans and monsters, so you'd think someone like Frisk – who straddled the line between the races by being a human adopted by monsters – would fit in quite well. Sadly, that wasn't the case, though they supposed they had the reputation of their adoptive family to thank for that more than anything else.

Frisk was, as fate would have it, the only child – and therefore the only  _heir_ – to the Dreemurr Family Syndicate, and contrary to popular belief, it wasn't a title that earned them many friends. The monsters in their class, though very carefully respectful, were too fearful and cowed to even exchange a friendly glance. And the humans... well, despite _officially_ having been at peace for the last few decades, monster-human relations were still rocky at best – there weren't many human students who were exactly bursting at the chance to make nice with the kids of _normal_ monsters, let alone the really powerful ones.

And as for Frisk's tormentors... Well. Theirs wasn't the _only_ powerful family in Ebott.

“figured.” Sans shook his head, sounding unsurprised but still plainly displeased. He craned his neck to look at them as the car glided to a stop at the level-crossing. “c'mon, kid – we _talked_ about this.”

“No,” Frisk grumbled, picking at a thread fraying on the hem of their blazer. “ _You_ talked.” They felt like that statement should sound fiercer than it did, but after the day they'd just had, they found themselves unable to summon the right level of indignation. “I just listened,” they added, trying again for a tone with even a small amount of bite to it and failing miserably.

Sans snorted. “ _listened_. right. your shiner says otherwise, bud.”

“Look, can we _not_ discuss this right now?” Frisk asked, rubbing the bridge of their nose. “I'm tired, and hungry, and I just want to go home, okay?”

“you're the boss. or, y'know, you will be. someday.”

“Not if I can help it,” Frisk mumbled under their breath. Time had not made their opinion of their family's business any sweeter, nor their desire to be a part of it any stronger.

They had no intention of following in their parents' footsteps.

The Dreemurr Syndicate had been founded the same way most gangs were – through _necessity_. With rampant discrimination, there had risen a need for protection, and through poverty the need for wealth. Frisk liked to believe their parents never intended for things to be this way, when they first began putting their empire together. Really, Asgore and Toriel Dreemurr were _good_ people – kind and generous people, who went out of their way to help the less fortunate. All they wanted was equality and justice for monsterkind, and what, at the end of the day, could be nobler than that?

But Frisk wasn't a fool, no matter how much they loved their adopted parents. The Dreemurrs' had done a lot of good, carving monsters out the respect and influence they deserved in the world, but they'd done a lot of bad too. Their wealth was built on the ruins of other peoples' lives, their success underpinned by the failures of those who weren't as good at the game. They could be cruel, and unforgiving, and utterly merciless to those who crossed them. Those who challenged them, who stood in their way in any capacity...

Frisk shuddered as their mind filled with images of pierced hearts and slit throats.

There had to be a better way. There  _had_ to. 

For several blissful minutes, the journey continued in silence. The car, smooth and silent, ate up the miles as it turned this way and that, crawling closer and closer to the looming shadow of Mt. Ebott.

Eventually, Sans made the turn onto the Dreemurr family estate, up a tiny private road lined on either side by dense woodland. It was so well hidden that a person could drive right by it, and never know it was there – which of course suited the Dreemurrs' purposes quite well. Up ahead the main house was _just_ visible through the trees, a huge, brilliant-white stone villa that was, Frisk had always thought, much more lavish than was strictly necessary. Mt. Ebott stood sentry in the background, majestic in the bright afternoon sun.

Home sweet home.

Sans parked the car on the paved driveway, slotting smoothly into the space between Undyne's motorbike and another of their parents' _'company'_ cars. That done, he removed the keys from the ignition and twisted around to look at them around the headrest, levering himself into position with one skeletal hand braced against the passenger seat.

“look, i'm not sayin' your pacifism thing ain't... _admirable_.” Except that was exactly what he was saying. “but kid... don't ya get tired of bein' pushed around all the time?”

Frisk scowled. “Don't _you_ get tired of sticking your nose into other people's business?”

Sans' grin widened, though Frisk knew better than to believe the gesture was a happy one. His tone, when he spoke, was deceptively playful. “alright, i get it. y' don't wanna talk about it.” He turned away from them. “but y'know... the gang won't follow someone they don't respect.”

And with that, he got out the car and casually started toward the house.

Frisk watched him go with a frown. They wished they had the nerve to tell him they didn't _want_ to be followed. That they didn't need his – or anyone else's – _respect_ , not if it meant casting aside their beliefs to get it. But that might lead to some uncomfortable questions, and with only a week left before their eighteenth birthday...

They were better off simply keeping their head down.

“Just get through this week,” they muttered to themselves. “Just one more week, that's all.”

One more week, and they'd be able to get the hell out of here.

Gathering up their school bag, Frisk clumsily manoeuvred themselves out of the car and followed Sans up the steps to the main door. He was waiting at the top, eyeing them in their dirt-stained uniform with a quirked brow.

“say, here's a thought,” he said. “if y' ain't gonna fight back, maybe you should try not drawin' so much attention to yourself?”

Oh, he was _good_ , Frisk thought, studying his slouched frame. They almost couldn't tell he was annoyed at all this time. The slight tightness of his perma-smile coupled with the clear bulge of clenched fists in his trouser pockets were a dead giveaway though, when you knew to look for them.

Feeling a little petty, Frisk decided to play dumb. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

They didn't enjoy watching his eye sockets narrow knowingly as much as they thought they would.

Truth be told, Frisk knew exactly what Sans was driving at. The fact that they'd chosen to wear a male uniform today was no coincidence – they always went slightly more masculine when Sans was scheduled for the school run, if only because they knew how much it bothered him. As it turned out, the pacifism wasn't the only facet of their life the skeleton apparently didn't approve of. He also had something of a sore spot for their agenderism. Or at least, he made it seem that way when he when he started dropping hints like this.

Sadly, this wasn't the first time he'd tried to 'encourage' them to act more in line with the sex they'd been born as. They just wished they knew  _why_.

“cut the crap, kiddo.”

They sighed. “Boy, you're two for two on shitting on my life choices today, huh?”

“hey, i'd be all for you dressin' however ya damn well please if you weren't gettin' dunked on all the time.” He opened the door and held it for them. “but like I said, if ya ain't gonna defend yourself then at least don't make yourself such an obvious target.”

“I'm not making myself a target,” Frisk objected, walking past him. “I'm just being me.”

“and who is that, exactly?” Sans smirked, the expression deliberately calculated to needle them. “the school punchbag?”

“No!” they shot back hotly, their temper starting to fray at last. Damn – they'd been doing so well too. Frisk really hadn't wanted this to devolve into a full blown shouting match, but no one quite got under their skin like Sans did. “God, why do you have to be such a-,”

“Frisk Dreemurr, the next word out of your mouth had better not be what I think it was going to be.”

Frisk spun to face the staircase at the opposite end of the foyer.

Toriel Dreemurr was, Frisk had always thought, a woman of truly astounding beauty and elegance. Even in a simple lilac shift, she descended those stairs like a _Queen,_ her head held high and her back straight as an arrow. One always got the sense, with Toriel, of a born leader – and certainly she had the rare ability to command any room she entered, be that room filled with children or thugs.

It made a startling contrast to the kindness normally present in her eyes, though that natural kindness was currently obscured by the sternness of a scolding mother.

Frisk's anger deflated as quickly as it had arrived.

“Mama,” they greeted demurely.

“m'am,” Sans nodded.

Toriel crossed her arms and looked between the two of them with an unamused frown. “Well?” she asked, gaze settling on Frisk, firm and authoritative. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Frisk felt their cheeks burn with chagrin. “Mama, he-,”

“I do not care _what_ Sans did to invite your ire,” Toriel said, in a tone that brooked no nonsense. “No child of mine is going to comport themselves in such a crass manner. Respectable people do not resort to petty and vulgar name-calling, do I make myself clear?”

Face warm and gaze averted, Frisk gave one jerky nod. “Yes, Mama.”

The steel left Toriel's voice immediately, replaced with the gentle warmth Frisk was more accustomed to. “Good. Now, thank Sans for his service, child, and follow me so that we may tend to that eye.”

Not daring to refuse, Frisk straightened and reluctantly turned to face Sans. He stood there in the same position as before, slouched and utterly unaffected, that wide grin pasted to his skull. Frisk knew it wasn't fair to think so, what with him being a skeleton and unable to help it, but they couldn't help thinking his smile looked particularly smug.

“Thank you for driving me home, Sans,” they said stiffly.

“don't mention it, kid,” Sans replied.

And with that he wandered off towards Papa's study.

Frisk scowled after him. They really hated that skeleton sometimes.

Toriel led them in the opposite direction, towards the drawing room. They weren't surprised, upon entering, to discover tea and biscuits already laid out for them.

“You must try to be more forgiving of Sans, my child,” Toriel said as she sat down in her favourite armchair. She gestured Frisk into the one beside her and, after dropping their school bag at the door, they did so without hesitation. “He is only concerned for your well-being.”

Frisk studied her as she leaned forward to examine their bruised eye.

“So you heard?”

She sighed. “I did.”

“Then why-,”

“Sans may seem brash and tactless, child, but it comes from a place of love.” She smiled softly, running the pad of her paw – warm with healing magic – over the tender skin on their face. “He is really very fond of you, you know.”

Frisk sincerely doubted it. Certainly they were willing to believe he cared about their welfare, but the idea that it came from a place of 'love' was laughable. More likely it came from a place of loyalty, duty and reluctant forbearance – Sans wanted them alive and well for their parents' sake, not his own.

The irony, of course, was that Frisk had once thought him a good friend.

“Now,” Toriel said once she'd finished healing Frisk's face. Some of the steel had crept back into her tone. “Are you ready to tell me who _dares_ lay their hands on my child?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so about the update schedule here... there isn't one. Or at least, there isn't an _official_ schedule - I will try to get at least one chapter out a week (I'll aim for Saturdays), but it's likely it might sometimes take longer than that. There are a few reasons for this, one being that I'm trying to extend the length of my chapters a bit from what they were in TMOLAL, another being that this story has been (and continues to be) more difficult to write than I anticipated. It has fought me at every turn, and even though I've got a respectable little cushion of chapters already written and ready for editing, with how things have progressed so far, I wouldn't count on that continuing to be the case. I swear, a lesser (saner) writer would have given up by now...
> 
> Anyway, the third and perhaps most important reason updates will probably be sparse is because I am going to college soon. Whenever I'm not studying, it's likely I'll be working ('cause, y'know, I gotta live somehow), so I foresee very little free time in my future.
> 
> That said, it's a point of pride for me that I never start anything I don't intend to finish, so don't worry - I _WILL_ FINISH THIS. Eventually.


	3. Chapter 3

After parting ways with Frisk and Tori, Sans headed straight to the boss's office feeling sullen and bitter. That could have gone better, he reflected, walking down the hall slowly, hands lodged firmly in his pockets. Honestly, he hadn't intended to force the issue like that – he actually didn't _care_ how Frisk chose to identify themselves.

It wasn't about that, and never had been.

He was just... so _sick_ of them coming home hurt all the time.

Sans was exceptionally good at reading people. In his line of work, it paid to be a few steps ahead – what better way than knowing the enemy better than they even knew themselves? And humans, as it happened, were almost embarrassingly easy to read. A small-minded race in general, humanity was resistant to change the way oil was resistant to water. They feared what they didn't understand, and in that fear they attacked the unknown with reckless vacuity.

That's why Frisk's pig-headedness pissed him off so much. It was like they were _trying_ to get beat up. They were already 'different' enough, being a human kid adopted by monsters – never mind that those monsters were the leaders of the most powerful monster gang in Ebott. Why they would further alienate themselves by openly flaunting their uncommon gender preferences was something Sans would never understand.

Couldn't they just... _pretend_ to follow the norm? Make life a bit easier for themselves, at least until they finished school? It was only another year after all.

Of course, _none_ of this would be an issue if they would stop being so damn stubborn and just defend themselves. Frisk was at least _proficient_ in a range of self-defence skills – their parents had made doubly fucking sure of that after the kidnap, despite the kid's own protests on the subject. Sans couldn't understand why they continued to hold back when it meant they got the stuffing knocked out of them every other day.

Reaching the door to the boss's office, Sans sighed. How anyone expected a kid like _Frisk_ to take over their parents' business was beyond him.

With a perfunctory knock, Sans slipped inside the office to make his report. “s'up boss man. 'm back.”

Asgore Dreemurr was a mountain of a man. Given his caprine appearance, one might say he was a mountain of a _goat_. Heh, a _mountain goat_. At least ten feet tall, and probably about half as wide, the boss cut an impressive figure in his Armani suit (the suit-jacket alone likely cost more than Sans made in a month, given the sheer volume of fabric required to make it). For all his impressive size though, he had a kind face beneath that great yellow beard of his.

Asgore glanced up, his gentle eyes tired but warm. “Yes, Sans, I see that. Did Frisk give you any trouble?”

Truth be told, Asgore Dreemurr was... _ill-suited_ to the life of a mob-boss. It wasn't that he couldn't _do_ the job – in many ways, he excelled at it. Sans had been working for him for a long time, and not once had he been given reason to doubt the man's leadership. He wasn't needlessly cruel like some other dons, but he didn't hesitate to do what needed done either.

Even so, he was too soft-hearted for this life; brutality did not come easily to the gentle giant. Sure, he could make the hard decisions when he had to, but they often haunted him afterwards. And now, after all these years, it was finally starting to take it's toll – Sans could see it in the fine lines around his eyes and the slight downward slant of even his most genuine smiles.

“nah. did kinda stick my foot in it though.” He shrugged. “don't worry about it.”

“Oh? I take it they didn't have a good day at school?”

“nnnope.”

“ I see,” he sighed, weary and contemplative. “That is... unfortunate.”

Sans shifted his weight to one foot and tried his best to look sympathetic – admittedly not an easy task for a skeleton, magical or otherwise.

He knew it must be hard, knowing your kid was getting shit at school and not being able to do a damn thing about it. Tori would probably go have a word with the principal (again), but she was fooling herself if she thought _that_ would make a difference. In a school full of rich kids, it was hard to enforce any kind of punishment without stepping on some important toes.

Besides, if Frisk was going to have _any_ hope of taking over the family business one day, it was better for them to deal with the situation alone. The world of corporate crime was not a forgiving place. Anyone who wasn't a friend was an enemy, and if you didn't want to end up with a knife in your back, it was smart to make sure you had as many friends as possible.

A pity then, that true friendship was one of the few things that couldn't be bought in this business. Career criminals were _smart,_ and smart people wanted to know their interests were being looked after more than they wanted loose gold lining their pockets.

Put simply; no one was going to spring for a fresh-faced teen who couldn't even handle a couple of bullies by themselves. Frisk was going to have to prove themselves sooner or later – they could only rest on their parents' laurels for so long.

This was a subject Sans had broached many times – was Frisk really the right choice here? He wasn't saying they should be kicked out or anything – he wasn't trying to muscle them out of their inheritance. They could still _own_ the syndicate, in the official sense. All Sans was saying was that maybe someone else should handle the... the less legitimate side of things. Someone better suited to the life.

Hey, Sans liked the kid, he really did, but _he_ was smart too, and he had a brother to think about.

Speaking of which...

“so,” Sans said, flopping into the armchair opposite Asgore's desk. Being a skeleton of no considerable stature, it all but engulfed him, having been designed for a bulk at least ten times his own. “where'd everybody go?”

Asgore's expression darkened. “There was a call while you were out.”

Sans sat up a little straighter. “shit. who was it this time?”

“The Eyewalkers.”

Sans thought for a moment. “the florists?”

“The very same.”

He almost didn't want to ask. “any casualties?”

“... One,” Asgore said at last. The way he said it, even one was too many. “I have already sent Mrs Eyewalker my condolences – and a tidy sum to ease her grief.”

Neither of them pointed out the very obvious fact that money made a poor replacement for a husband.

This was, Sans noted, the third such attack in as many months. First the grocers, then the boutique... Now a Dreemurr-protected florist had been hit as well. The message couldn't be any clearer. _Someone_ out there really had it in for the Dreemurrs, and no mistake. Someone who wasn't afraid of inciting Asgore's wrath.

An enemy who wasn't afraid of consequences was a dangerous thing indeed. Sans didn't like this one little bit.

“any idea who...?”

“None. If it was another gang, they're in no rush to claim responsibility.” Asgore tapped his thick fingers on the desk. “And of course, the Dreemurrs are not lacking in adversaries, so no clues there.”

No. And Sans had little doubt there would be nothing useful at the scene either. Whoever was behind all this had, thus far, been curiously meticulous – they trashed the place good, and shot whoever happened to be on the premises, but left not so much as a single hair or even the _hint_ of a fingerprint. There was soul residue, sure, but that told them exactly nothing – the best Alphys had been able to do with _that_ was tell them there were multiple perpetrators, they were human, and that the soul traits Perseverance, Justice and Courage had been present in the highest concentrations.

The day when technology could pick out specific soul patterns and link them to a single individual was a long way off yet.

“they're sharp,” he muttered, almost to himself. “too sharp for your garden-variety criminal. we're probably dealin' with somebody high up the food chain – folks that shrewd don't follow, they lead. young too,” he added. “young enough to still be reckless.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Asgore nodded. He smiled wryly. “Not a lot to go on, is it my friend?”

“young, powerful, and with a hell of an axe to grind.” Sans grinned. “that only narrows it down to about a _thousand_ suspects.”

Sans didn't say it – he knew Asgore wouldn't want to _hear_ it – but he didn't honestly think they'd seen _anything_ yet. The places their mysterious foes had struck so far had been insignificant in the grand scheme of things; small-time businesses who paid the Dreemurrs for such protection as they could provide in this city of lawlessness. How long before they went after something _really_ important? One of the speakeasies or the warehouses? One of the factories, even?

The skeleton was under no illusions. Someone out there was declaring _war_ , and this was just their opening act.

 

* * *

 

 

Undyne stared at the small pile of dust that had once been the late Mr. Eyewalker. There was so _little_ , for it to be the only remains of so much. A whole monster, reduced to barely enough ash to fill a mug. Undyne hadn't known the guy, not on a personal level, but she _did_ buy the flowers for her mother's memorial grave from here – he'd always been nice enough, to her mind, with a real eye for colour coordination. A bit insipid maybe, but harmless.

Undyne hadn't known him, but she did know one thing – he'd deserved better than _this_.

Shuffling around the trashed store front, she did her best to pretend to be gathering evidence that – _again –_ simply didn't exist. There was _nothing._ Nothing they didn't already know.

A bullet in the wall behind the register, the one that must have cut the poor Astigmatism monster's life short; fired from a gun that was as common as dirt around this city. Useless.

Broken vases, buckled watering cans, shattered pots and crushed flowers – whatever the scumbags had used to do the damage, they'd taken away with them again, and Undyne guessed they must have been wearing full hazmat or something as well, because there wasn't a _speck_ of DNA to be found.

The register was untouched, as usual – whoever did this was either rich enough not to need it, or smart enough not to risk leaving their prints. Possibly both. Either way, it yielded them nothing.

Undyne sighed. This 'investigation' was pointless. She and Paps were here for damage control, nothing more.

Papyrus himself was in the back room, comforting the recently bereaved Ms. Eyewalker as best he could. Better him than her. Undyne disliked admitting _any_ weakness, but she had no misconceptions about her communication skills – about as soothing as a blender full of razorblades, she was better suited to the rougher stuff. Papyrus, on the other hand, was curiously sweet and endearing for a man of his profession.

She was just crouching down to examine a yellow flower that seemed to have avoided being trampled like the rest, when Paps came through the doorway looking grim. Behind him, Mrs. Eyewalker could be heard sobbing, a wretched broken sound that tore at Undyne's heartstrings.

“How'd it go?” she asked, standing up as he approached and doing her best to keep her expression neutral.

“NOT WELL, I'M AFRAID,” Papyrus said, returning to his natural volume as he joined her. The skeleton had long since mastered the art of the 'indoor-voice' – he'd had to; some things were just not fit to be shouted about – but for whatever reason he always defaulted to 'ear-splitting' whenever the opportunity arose. “MRS. EYEWALKER HAS DECIDED TO SEVER TIES WITH THE DREEMURR FAMILY INDEFINITELY.”

“Damn.” It wasn't really a surprise. People were only willing to pay protection fees if they honestly thought it would keep them safe – this... _this_ was the exact opposite of safe. “She have anythin' useful for us?”

They both knew she was only asking as a sake of formality. To have any useful information she'd have had to have _been_ here – if she'd been here, she'd have shared the same fate as her husband.

“NOTHING,” Papyrus confirmed. “SHE WAS OUT WHEN IT HAPPENED, VISITING A FRIEND.”

“Small miracles, I guess.”

“INDEED.”

They left the shop and climbed into Papyrus' bright red, two-passenger convertible. Hardly the most subtle choice of vehicle, but Pap had his quirks and one was that, aside from delivery trucks, he wouldn't be caught dead driving anything but his sleek crimson baby.

Undyne waited until they were well on the road before saying anything more.

“You thinkin' what I'm thinkin', nerd?”

“IF YOU ARE THINKING THAT THIS SEEMS AN AWFUL LOT LIKE A DECLARATION OF WAR, THEN YES, I AM THINKING THAT TOO.” Papyrus drummed his bony fingers against the steering wheel – a gesture that, from him, was downright anxious. “WHO WOULD WANT TO START A WAR WITH THE DREEMURRS?”

Undyne snorted. “Who _wouldn't_? I think a better question is, who has the balls to actually do it?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Frisk always knocked, before entering their father's lounge. It wasn't strictly necessary – they knew they were always welcome there, any time they pleased – but they did so regardless, out of a long-ingrained, _instinctive_ kind of respect. Asgore Dreemurr was a powerful man. A good man too, where it counted, Frisk would never stop believing that, but _powerful_ above all else. And powerful people inspired a certain level of deference, even from those closest to them.

When they knocked this time, it was with something approaching dread in their belly. This was no mere social call. Though Frisk was free to visit their father anytime they liked, it was a rare thing for him to specifically request their presence. It was rarer still that this break from the norm signified anything good.

“Come in,” came his baritone voice from the other side of the door.

Frisk braced themselves and entered.

“You wanted to see me, papa?”

“Frisk!” he replied warmly, genuinely pleased – as he always was – to see them. “How many times do I have to tell you? You don't need to knock.”

He was sitting in his favourite, well-worn armchair, with a cup of what they knew would be golden-flower tea held delicately in one huge paw. The small table on his right held an ornate lamp, it's soft light shining off of a beautiful hand-painted tea service – Wedgewood, unless they missed their guess. Beside the tea tray a thick book lay face down, it's pages spread wide to keep his place, one half dangling precariously off the table's edge while a pair of surprisingly delicate reading glasses sat, folded, on the other half. The glasses were papa's favourite pair, Frisk noted, the ones with the tortoiseshell frames that were especially tiny on his broad face.

The scene was so incongruous that Frisk couldn't help but smile. Asgore Dreemurr – the single most influential monster in the world – sitting innocently by the fire with a cup of tea and his book. To anyone who didn't already know him, he'd have looked like any typical old man.

“I know,” Frisk replied, feeling the knot of tension in their gut loosen a little. After the briefest hesitation, they stepped fully into the room and threw their arms around his large neck. “Habit.”

Asgore chuckled fondly, gently setting his teacup down beside the book and returning their embrace. When they pulled back again, beaming, he ruffled their hair before directing them to the (much smaller) chair on the other side of the table. Frisk sat, feeling marginally better for the familiar exchange, and accepted a fresh cup of tea when he handed it to them.

“So...” he began at length. “How was school?”

In an instant, any warmth they'd drawn from the situation fled. Frisk felt their facial muscles stiffen, their hands tightening angrily around the delicate china cup. Though their mother had been very thorough in her healing – as she always was - they could have sworn they felt a phantom throb where the bruises had been on their rapidly reddening face.

That... that _weasel_! That absolute _rat_! They should have _known_ Sans' would tattle to their father, boneheaded blabbermouth that he was!

Logically, Frisk knew they had no right to be upset. They didn't even know why they were surprised – he _was_ on Asgore's payroll after all, and it's not like they'd asked him to keep quiet in the first place.

Still. It felt like betrayal. It was none of his _business_! What they did (or didn't do) at school was nothing to do with Papa, nothing to do with _him_ , and frankly Frisk could do without the interference.

“Sans told you?” they asked, confirming what they already knew.

“I _asked_.”

“And he _told_ you,” Frisk continued doggedly. “That _snitch!_ ”

“He didn't tell me much,” Asgore defended calmly. “Only that you'd had a bad day at school. The rest I deduced on my own.”

That took the wind out of their sails a bit.

“... oh.”

An awkward silence ensued. Frisk, chagrined, felt their ears start to burn.

Asgore cocked his head at them thoughtfully. “Why do you _insist_ on assuming the worst of Sans?” he asked, genuinely curious. “It seems you'll take any opportunity to quarrel with him these days.”

“I... I just...” Frisk scrambled for an answer and came up short. “He just gets under my skin is all...”

But it was more than that, and they knew it. They just didn't want to admit it.

“Is it...” he began haltingly, “is this about the kidnapping?”

“No.”

They weren't lying – not really. Maybe that's how it had started, but it wasn't _about_ that. Even so, their mouth suddenly felt parched. They took a sip of tea. It didn't help. They drank more anyway.

“Because Frisk, if it is,” Asgore continued cautiously, “you _know_ Sans only did what he did to protect you.” His expression hardened, a hint of the intractable mob boss rippling across the kind face of their father. “Those people... they didn't _deserve_ mercy.”

“I know.” Their voice was hoarse, their mouth still dry despite having drained their cup. They could feel a cold sweat erupting across their palms, trickling down their back and sticking their clothes to their skin. Their ears were ringing. “It's not... it's not about _that_.”

“Then what?”

They didn't want to talk about it. Talking about it made it real – made it something they could no longer ignore.

Frisk didn't want to talk about how, every time they looked at Sans, they remembered the cruel expression he'd worn as he casually killed two people right in front of them. Or how when he laughed, no matter how brightly, they always heard the cold, merciless chuckle he'd uttered as he tortured their last kidnapper for information. They couldn't bear to tell anyone how _Sans_ – once their dearest friend and protector – had become a grim and constant reminder of a much larger problem.

It wasn't about what he'd _done_ , not really. It was about what he was – what they _all_ were.

Criminals. Gangsters. _Bad people._

The day they'd been kidnapped, Sans had shown Frisk _exactly_ the kind of people their adopted family were. Frisk loved them anyway, of course, because at their core, they were actually very _good_ people – kind, selfless, _loving_ people, just doing what they thought they had to, to help themselves and their species survive. Be that as it may, it didn't change the fact that their methods were _wrong._

No amount of love would change that either.

“Is this what you called me here for?” Frisk asked stiffly, carefully setting their teacup aside. “To talk about Sans?”

The words themselves were as polite as ever, but there was no mistaking the clipped defiance in their tone. It was as close as Frisk had ever come to giving their father attitude, and judging by the way he arched one fuzzy eyebrow, Asgore himself did not fail to take note of that fact.

“Not precisely,” he frowned, “but the topic is not unrelated.”

Frisk made no reply. The bad feeling they'd had before entering the room was back in full force, gnawing at their belly and tightening like a rubber band around their chest – anything they could possibly bring themselves to say at this point wouldn't be something Asgore wanted to hear, and so plainly, it was better to say nothing at all.

“Very well,” Asgore sighed, when it became obvious he could expect no further input on Frisk's part. “As you are no doubt aware, your eighteenth birthday is right around the corner – next year you'll graduate high school, and with that in mind, I believe now is the right time to discuss the future. _Your_ future,” he went on to specify, as though that weren't already patently obvious, “and the future of this family.”

Frisk's stomach dropped to somewhere in the vicinity of their boots.

Suddenly, Sans didn't seem like such a bad topic for conversation after all.

 

* * *

 

 

“full house.”

Sans watched with an amused smirk as Undyne squinted at the cards in utter disbelief. When they didn't spontaneously change under her glare – which Sans thought was actually quite brave of them – she slammed a fist down on the table and tossed her own less than impressive hand in his general direction.

Sans chuckled and scooped up his winnings.

“No way, dude – there's just _no way!_ That's your third Full House in a row!”

She scowled as he tucked the notes into his shirt pocket. By her own request, his jacket and hat were on a coat rack clear across the room, his shirtsleeves rolled up well past his elbows. Still, she scrutinised him with a knowing eye, a grudging kind of respect in her glare.

“You're cheatin',” she growled. “I dunno how you're doin' it, but you _are_.”

He was. Sans, as a rule, didn't play games he wasn't certain he'd win. The fact that Undyne _knew_ he was cheating was honestly just part of the fun.

“prove it,” he grinned cheekily, taking a sip from the tumbler of whiskey he'd been nursing all night.

“Damn hustler,” Undyne snorted. She seemed more amused than annoyed. “If you're not gonna play fair, I ain't playin'.”

Sans shrugged. “ _suit_ yourself.”

“Ha and ha. Suit, cards – _hilarious_.” Undyne drained the rest of her own drink – a heady concoction of her own making, the fumes of which alone were enough to get Sans (himself a seasoned drinker) more than a little tipsy – and cast her sharp yellow gaze over the room. “ _Fuck_ , this is boring... Saddest bar scene I ever laid eyes on.”

“think you mean 'eye'.”

“WHATEVER!”

Sans snorted.

Undyne was right though – it _was_ pretty sad. To even call the room a 'bar' was stretching the definition of the word to it's absolute limits. Sure, there was _a_ bar – a well-stocked one at that, supplied by the Dreemurrs own distilleries – but it was perpetually unmanned, and as fun as an endlessly open bar sounded, Sans had found that a lot of the charm and atmosphere was lost without a bartender to bounce jokes off of.

“How much longer d'you think we're gonna be holed up around here?” Undyne grumbled. “Dunno about anybody else, but this mountain air is gettin' fuckin' _stale_.”

“aww, does somebody miss the city?” he teased.

“Damn right I do!” Undyne boomed, pounding a fist over her chest. “I wasn't built for this country livin' bullcrap! I belong down on the ground, where the action is. My talents are _wasted_ in a place like this!”

“would you say it's,” Sans smirked, “an atro _city_?”

“JUST BECAUSE I'M SITTING OVER HERE AND YOU'RE OVER THERE, DOESN'T MEAN I CAN'T HEAR YOUR TERRIBLE PUNS, SANS.”

Sans chuckled. “sorry bro.”

Papyrus, being an exceptionally bad poker player – and not much of a gambler besides – was sitting apart from his brother and Undyne, perched on the room's one leather couch, completely absorbed in whatever was on the widescreen television on the wall. It looked to Sans like a news report on the monster who'd gotten popped today, no doubt a typically bare bones piece, as most human-written features involving monsters _were_. The only other occupants of the lounge were two dogs, off-duty members of the Dreemurr's private security team, muttering to each other at a card table in another corner.

“So,” Undyne said, kicking her boot-clad feet up on the low table, not bothering to avoid the scattered remnants of their game. “Heard you and Frisk had another punch-up today.”

Sans grimaced. He'd been trying _not_ to think about it, mostly because he got the feeling that the whole thing had been his fault. Seemed like every time he and the kid occupied the same space for more than five minutes these days, they ended up arguing, and always over the stupidest stuff. He knew he should probably go apologise, but stars knew he’d just fuck that up too. So here he was, trying to drown his guilty conscience instead. As usual.

In lieu of an answer, Sans knocked back the rest of his whiskey – it did little to wash the sour taste from his mouth.

“looks like i need another drink.” He stood slowly, his spine popping pleasantly with the movement. He'd been there since leaving the boss’s office several hours ago, and had spent much of that time in the same slouched position – funny how he was only now noticing the number it had done on his back.

Undyne whistled, raising her own empty glass in a mocking toast before hoisting herself to her feet and following him to the bar. “That bad, huh?”

“no offence, undyne,” said Sans, clicking his fingers in the direction of the cabinet he knew held the better range of whiskeys and bourbons. The doors opened and, seemingly at random, a bottle wreathed in blue floated over to place itself in front of him. Sans poured himself a few fingers, then brought his glass and the bottle both to the couch, flopping down beside his brother. “but i don't wanna talk about it.”

Papyrus barely glanced at them, fully engaged as he was in whatever the news reporter on the screen was saying.

“Look,” Undyne sighed. ”all I'm sayin' is that maybe the punk would like ya better if you got off their case once in a while.”

“maybe i wouldn't need ta _be_ on their case if they'd stop lettin' themselves get beat up all the time...” Sans muttered. “besides, who said i _wanted_ them ta like me? 'm not paid t' be their pal.”

“It'd make your job easier if they did,” Undyne pointed out reasonably. “Can't be easy, playin' bodyguard to a kid who can't stand the sight of you...” She thought for a second, then gave him a toothy grin. “Not that I blame 'em – you _are_ one ugly son of a-,”

“UNDYNE. THE NEXT WORD OUT OF YOUR MOUTH BETTER BE 'SKELETON', OR THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES.”

She shrugged unrepentantly. “Sorry, Paps.” Behind the taller skeleton's back she offered Sans a crooked smirk. Somehow, he doubted 'skeleton' was the moniker she'd had in mind.

“THAT'S QUITE ALL RIGHT,” Papyrus said, finally turning away from the TV. “AND SANS – I THINK YOU SHOULD APOLOGISE TO FRISK.”

“what? _why_?”

“BECAUSE YOU INSULTED THEM AND BELITTLED THEIR CHOICES,” his brother said firmly. “FRISK IS NOT A CHILD ANY MORE, BROTHER. THEY ARE CAPABLE OF MAKING THEIR OWN DECISIONS, AND EVEN IF YOU DON'T AGREE WITH THEM, YOU NEED TO RESPECT THEM.”

“Yeah!” Undyne piped in. “What he said!”

“AND BESIDES,” Papyrus added thoughtfully. “I FIND FRISK'S DEDICATION TO PACIFISM QUITE ADMIRABLE.”

“you _would_.”

That said, his bro had a valid point. Sans had crossed a line (again), and for that he owed them an apology. At the very least, he should say sorry for his dig at their gender. That had been low, even for him.

“alright, _fine_. i'll tell the kid i'm sorry.”

Papyrus beamed. “I KNEW YOU'D DO THE RIGHT THING!”

“to _marrow_.”

After all, they had a drop to make tonight.

“WHENEVER YOU'RE... WAIT,” Papyrus narrowed his sockets suspiciously. “WAS THAT A PUN?”

 


	5. Chapter 5

“Well then. I believe that is all, for now,” Asgore said in his rumbling voice. “Unless you'd like to stay for another cup of tea?”

“No thank you, papa.” Frisk barely managed to get the words out, their jaw clenched tight enough to make their teeth creak in their mouth. Their eyes felt warm, their heart cold – it was all they could do to keep from screaming in his face. “It's late. I... I think I should go to bed now.”

Oblivious to their turmoil – or perhaps deliberately turning a blind eye to it – Asgore nodded and heaved himself to his feet.

“Allow me to walk you to your rooms then.”

“That's alright,” Frisk said stiffly, barely masking the well of emotion they could feel bubbling inside their chest. “I know the way, and you're probably tired too.”

It was a weak deflection, their attempt at courtesy gossamer thin, and both of them knew it.

“Frisk... I know you don't like... well, a lot of what we discussed tonight.” An understatement, really. Frisk _didn't like_ a lot of things – snail pie, gym class, homework... But this – _this_ , they _hated_. “But some day you'll understand. Everything I do, I do with your best interests in mind. Yours, and our family's.”

It was... not the _best_ thing he could have said.

“How can _I_ possibly be what's best for our family?” Frisk blurted. _I'm a pacifist_ , they might have added, but they forced themselves to leave that part unsaid. It was nothing their father didn't already know, and they were already exhausted enough as it was – they didn't feel like opening that particular can of worms again today.

Asgore studied them silently for a minute and then sighed. He sounded so weary, when he next spoke – the kind of soul-deep fatigue that only a long life, hard lived, could achieve.

“Frisk, do you know _why_ I steered our family down the path I did?”

Frisk kicked sullenly at the carpeted floor. They weren't in the mood for a history lesson. “It was the easiest way to gain the money and power you needed to make humans respect monsters.”

“Easy? No, my child. There is nothing about this road we've travelled that has been _easy_. Nothing at all.” He paused, letting that sink in, before continuing solemnly. “I led our family into a life of crime and disrepute, not because it was the _easy_ way, but because it was the _only_ way. You are much, _much_ too young to remember, but there was once a time when we monsters were treated... well, little better than _insects_. We languished in slums, whole generations living and dying in poverty, barely surviving on what little the humans saw fit to give us. It was... it was no way to live.”

Frisk could relate to that much. The little time they'd spent on the streets, before Toriel found them and welcomed them into her home, had not always been kind. For every human who offered them food or water or shelter for the night, there were at least two who shouted and kicked at them, and threw things – and many more who simply walked by and did nothing at all. If that's how it had been for _them_ , a human child, Frisk could hardly begin to imagine what it must have been like for monsters.

Humans, on the whole, were not at their kindest around these parts.

“ _I_ changed that,” Asgore rumbled. “I carved out a place for monsters in this world dominated by humans. If the humans cannot learn to respect us, then for the time being they will have to _fear_ us – otherwise, we would be in the slums still. Do you understand, child?”

They did. That was perhaps the very worst part of all this – Frisk _understood_ perfectly. But even so, they kept thinking about the old baker who'd given them bread and cakes from the back door of his bakery. They thought about the woman, surrounded by her own squalling children and near as poor as Frisk themselves were, giving them spare change whenever she passed them on the street. They thought about the businessman who sometimes shared his lunch with them, and the grocery store owner who frequently left a box of 'damaged' goods at the back door for them to pick over, and the bouncer who'd sometimes let them sleep in the staff room at the club he worked at.

They thought about the police and the social workers and all the rest, all the officials who'd really _tried_ to get them help, to give them what they'd needed, and who'd failed only because Frisk themselves hadn't _wanted_ to be helped.

Good people. The kind of people who deserved to be protected. The kind of people whose lives could be – and frequently were – _ruined_ by the kind of things Frisk's family did for a living.

It didn't matter how pure Asgore's reasons were – somewhere out there, other people were suffering (sometimes very physically) so that the monsters could make their money. That wasn't something Frisk could bring themselves to be a part of.

“That still doesn't explain why it has to be _me_.” It was as close as they dared come to voicing their doubts.

“Because you, Frisk, are going to be the bridge between fear and respect. You are going to be the gateway to _true_ equality for monsters and humans.”

“What?” they asked incredulously.

“Can you imagine it, child? The most powerful monster business, headed by a _human_. What a statement that would be, don't you agree? In time, you'll marry and have children of your own, and your heirs will be human as well, raised alongside monsters as cherished family and friends – or else monster-human hybrids who'll go on to symbolise a _true_ union of our species... Either way, someday your children will have more children, and those children will have children, and in time, our races will be so intertwined, it will be hard to remember there was ever a time we were anything but.”

Frisk was flabbergasted. “You – you realise you're talking _generations_ , here? Literally hundreds upon hundreds of years?”

Asgore nodded. “It will take time, I'm aware of that. But remember, Frisk – any journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.”

… _that_ , at least, was something they could agree on.

 

* * *

 

Sans was half-asleep by the time the call came in. His leather-shod feet were propped up on the dashboard – much to Papyrus' irritation – and his hat was pulled low over his resting eye sockets. Outside, the sky was sharp and clear and moonless, the warehouse complex around them silent as the grave but for the almost imperceptible screeching of thousands of spider monsters hard at work in the back. The skeletons had been sitting in the cab of an idling flower delivery truck for over an hour now, waiting for the signal to start hauling their load.

That was the problem with using spider monsters to pack up the goods. Despite their numbers and the multiple limbs, it took for _ever_.

“You're good to go now, dearies,” Muffet tittered over the radio, jolting Sans from his doze. “It's all loaded. Now remember, I want you at Grillby's by two, and back no later than four thirty. We'll need this truck washed and refuelled for the big flower drop over in Seattle tomorrow. Or should I say later today? Ahuhuhu~!”

“ROGER,” Papyrus shouted back, adjusting himself in the driver seat. “WE'RE LEAVING NOW.”

“about damn time,” Sans muttered, stretching his spine with a satisfying pop before plugging his seatbelt in. “i was startin' to get _truckered_ out.”

“SANS! THIS JOURNEY IS GOING TO BE QUITE LONG ENOUGH _WITHOUT_ YOUR PUNS, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!”

“aww, c'mon bro,” Sans sniggered. “no need to be so _truck_ ulent.”

Papyrus huffed, but made no reply as he expertly navigated the flower truck through the Dreemurr Corporation Growth Lab Division's security gates.

On the surface of it, the Dreemurr family was – and had always been – in the business of flowers. Not at ground level, of course, such as the late Mr Eyewalker and his wife had been. _One_ florists – or even one hundred of them – did not make an Empire the like of which the Dreemurrs had amassed. Neither did their _actual_ business, truth be told, which was the growth and supply of rare monster flora (including, but not limited to, Golden Flowers, Echo Flowers and edible Water Sausage plants). But it was certainly more believable than any mere chain of flower boutiques, and so far as the legal system was concerned, that was all that mattered.

The Dreemurrs' _actual_ actual business – the business Sans and Papyrus were currently attending to – was a lot more complicated. And a lot less legal.

 _Magic_.

It was the one thing monsters had that humans didn't, and the one thing they all really wanted. No matter how much they denied it – and some _did_ , to the hilt – there wasn't a human alive who didn't secretly wish for a taste of the mysterious power the monsters wielded with such ease. Hence, the success of the Dreemurr Syndicate was built on a very simple premise. If the humans wanted magic, the monsters would let them have it.

For a price.

In the beginning, it had just been regular monster food and drinks – tiny traces of magic in innocuous, everyday packages, enough to heal the common cold or a few surface wounds and no more. Soon enough, however, the humans grew disinterested. They wanted _more_ , and so more is precisely what they were given. 'Speciality' dishes and drinks roared through the market, consumables imbued with much more magic than was usual and exhibiting side-effects that were much more impressive than simple healing. Fire Whiskey that made the drinker fireproof for a time, Nice Cream that nullified the cold, Spider Doughnuts that turned everyday Joes into regular Spidermen and Spiderwomen for a day...

To say nothing of the weapons that soon flooded the market. Sticks and plastic guns and ribbons and the like, innocent objects made deadly with the addition of magic (though never so deadly as to pose a threat to the real deal, obviously).

The possibilities were, quite literally, _endless_.

Somewhat predictably, the humans found the power – however false and fleeting – incredibly addictive.

By the time the Magic Prohibition Act finally came into play, Ebott City and a considerable number of it's neighbouring towns were awash in madness. People were putting themselves and their families on the streets, crippling themselves with insurmountable debt, all for sometimes as little as a plate of Air Fries (fries with a fusion of gravity magic that let the eater 'fly' for an hour). Whole businesses went bankrupt in a matter of days; violent (and occasionally fatal) muggings were an almost daily occurrence; bigger crimes, like bank robberies and heists, made it into the news every other week.

Even the Dreemurrs – who at that point had been the biggest suppliers of magic (though far from the only ones) – were forced to admit that something needed to be done. In that respect, the prohibition was actually to their advantage. Sure, it made distribution of their biggest racket harder and more dangerous, but with the sudden eradication of the law-abiding types and anyone dumb enough to get caught as buyers, it also made the market smaller – more _manageable –_ which in turn slashed the competition.

Nowadays, that small market was catered to almost exclusively by the Dreemurr Syndicate, chiefly via a fairly extensive chain of speakeasies. Occasionally, a special job came in – private catering for some rich snob's party, the odd weapons request, that kind of thing – but that wasn't the case tonight. Tonight, Sans and Papyrus were making a regular delivery, a drinks run to one of the Dreemurrs' clubs. Sans' personal favourite dive, in fact, place by the name of Grillby's.

It was easy work, if boring, and well worth the two hour trip from the compound for a bottle of Grillbz' home-made ketchup.

“wake me when we get there, bro,” Sans yawned, making himself comfortable.

“FINE. BUT _YOU'RE_ DRIVING BACK.”

 

* * *

 

“I guess this is it.”

The two graves, small, marble white, and immaculately kept, gave no answer. Of _course_ they didn't – they were only stone, only markers, and the people they represented had passed on long ago. Long before Frisk was even a thought in the grand womb of the universe.

Still.

Frisk liked to pretend they were listening anyway. It helped, sometimes, to imagine they weren't as alone as they felt. They wondered if their decades-dead siblings would have agreed with what they were about to do... Probably not.

It had taken Frisk precisely one minute, after their bedroom door had clicked closed and they'd heard their father's ponderous footsteps disappearing down the hall, to decide on this course of action. One single, endless minute, before they sprang into action, pulling their pre-packed rucksack from underneath their bed, changing their clothes into something a bit more travel-worthy, and pre-booking their tickets online for collection en route (they wanted an absolute minimum of public contact while they made their escape; the less anyone knew about who they were and where they were going, the better).

They'd pulled an old sock (one of their father's, coincidentally) out from the back of their underwear drawer, stuffed near to splitting with a respectable amount of cash, and did a last minute recount of their funds before shoving it to the bottom of their pack. They'd bagged their small supply of protein bars and popato chisps, and carefully placed them on top. Finally, they'd hovered by the open bedroom window, wrapped up in their khaki parka, heavy backpack digging into their shoulders already, debating the pros and cons of leaving a note.

In the end, however, they'd decided against it. There was nothing they could say that their parents would understand – nothing that would soften the blow.

Now, Frisk sat in their siblings' memorial garden for what would likely be the very last time, listening to the chill night air rustling the leaves in the trees, saying their final goodbyes to the only two people they could trust not to try and stop them.

“I can't be what papa wants me to be,” Frisk said in a low voice, twisting their fingers in their lap. “I just _can't_. Not even for the future of monsters and humans.”

Was that selfish? They felt like that was selfish.

It didn't change their mind one bit.

Frisk understood their father's grandiose vision, perhaps better than anyone else could – at it's core it was simply the desire for monsters and humans to coexist in peace, and wasn't that what _they_ wanted too, at the end of the day? It wasn't his _goal_ they disagreed with. It was his methods. There _had_ to be a better way to unite the two races, a way that didn't involve hurting people and ruining lives.

They were going to find it.

It was a week sooner than they'd intended, but when they left this place they were going to Atlanta – where no one knew anything about them, or the Dreemurrs, or any of this. There, they'd finish up high school, before taking (and _aceing_ ) the entrance exam for the Emory University School of Law. With a bit of luck, and a whole lot of hard work, they'd earn themselves a scholarship, then a degree, and in time they would return to Ebott with the skills they'd need to make a _real_ difference.

If current laws couldn't protect their monster family from discrimination and inequality, Frisk would go out there and _change_ those laws.

Even if it meant putting themselves and their loved ones on opposing sides.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where my complete and utter ignorance of anything and everything American comes into play. The story is set in America because although we did have gangsters and such over here in Scotland, their... er, _aesthetic_ was quite different to the tone I'm going for. SO! Although I did kind of half-glance at a map/the internet for the general locations and trivia and stuff that will be making an appearance, you'll have to forgive any inaccuracies.


	6. Chapter 6

Sans knew, almost the instant the truck glided into the loading bay, that something wasn't right.

He wasn't immediately certain what gave it away – the setup, by all accounts, _looked_ normal. The bay shutters were down, but that in itself wasn't unusual; Grillbz was a cautious guy, and he never opened them until he knew for sure who he was dealing with. The entrance, when they'd driven by on their way round back, had been all in darkness, but again, that wasn't exactly out of the ordinary – Grillby's _official_ business (that being a regular diner, selling strictly magic-free food) closed at a perfectly respectable hour. The real party, at this time of night, was downstairs and well beyond the prying eyes of the law.

It wasn't until Papyrus spoke, in an uncharacteristically low voice, that Sans figured out what had set him on edge.

“Where is Grillby?”

“... good question.”

Now that his brother had pointed it out, the distinct lack of Grillby's magic signature was glaring. Monsters, as standard, typically gave off a weak magical aura that others of their species could use to identify them. It was, most experts believed, a vestigial feature – a throwback to the old days when communication had been a primitive combination of magic signals, grunts and body language. Humans had something similar in the way of pheromones and chemoreceptors.

In any case, while monsters _could_ control their auras to some extent – flaring and suppressing it to convey very basic emotion, for example – it was unusual (and uncomfortable) for a monster to suppress their signature to the point of undetectability.

Which meant one of three things.

  1. Grillby wasn't here.

  2. Grillby was subtly trying to warn them.

  3. Grillby was hurt or... or worse.




Either way, it spelled trouble. The Dreemurr Syndicate didn't get to be as successful as it was by allowing for sloppiness – if Grillbz wasn't out here waiting for them, like he was _supposed_ to be, it was because something had happened to stop him from doing so.

“bro, do y' think you could wait in the cab for a sec?”

“Of course, brother,” Papyrus replied, still eerily quiet. He didn't look at Sans as he spoke, his sockets glued to the shutters with a rare intensity – as though if he stared hard enough, he might be able to discern what awaited them on the other side.

Satisfied, Sans climbed out of the truck.

Papyrus followed.

“pap...”

“You asked if I _could_ wait in the cab, which I can. Not if I _would_.” A long bone with a bulbous ball joint on the end materialised in his hand. “Which I won't,” he added grimly.

Tempted as he was to try and convince his bro to stay put, Sans was acutely aware that the situation could be time sensitive. They didn't have time to argue.

“fine. guess we're both headin' in,” he sighed, drawing the rarely used gun from inside his jacket. Suppressing his first instinct – which was to tell Papyrus to stay behind him, where logic dictated it was safest – Sans motioned the taller skeleton ahead. “you go first – i'll cover ya.”

Guns were, for the most part, unnecessary as far as monsters were concerned. There wasn't much the human-made weapons could do that magic couldn't accomplish just as easily. As a result, few monsters bothered with them. Certainly, Sans – whose magic was a bit more potent than he normally liked to let on – had little need of one; it was much more efficient, after all, to grab a guy with blue magic than it was to waste time aiming at him.

That said, a gun did occasionally have it's uses.

Although the existence and power of magic was common knowledge, nothing quite cowed a human like the appearance of a firearm. There had been many times in Sans' long and storied career where a conflict had ended before it even began simply because he'd gone into the fray with his gun drawn.

Something told him that would not be the case today.

Still. It was worth a shot. (Ha!)

They had scarcely made it to the shutters before the gunfire started.

A rain of bullets assailed their position from some indefinite point behind, clattering off the truck and punching dusty holes in the brick of Grillby's loading bay. Immediately, with reflexes instilled by many years' experience, the brothers dived as one into what little cover was available to them – that being the small gap between the back end of the truck and the still-sealed shutters. Their skulls collided as they scrambled to safety, an added discomfort in a situation becoming less and less comfortable by the second.

“WHAT THE HECK?!” Papyrus yelled, covering his non-existent ears with his hands. “WHO'S SHOOTING AT US?!”

Sans, too surprised himself to take note of Papyrus' almost-swear, could only grimace. When the noise died down, he hesitantly peaked around the corner in search of an answer to that question, but whipped back again when a fresh volley rent the air.

“no one we wanna be _shootin'_ the breeze with, i'll bet.”

Despite the precariousness of their situation, Papyrus gave him a disgusted look. “REALLY? EVEN WHILE WE'RE IN MORTAL PERIL?”

Sans grinned. “is there a better time ta _fire_ 'em out?” His left eye flared cyan-gold while his other socket went dark. “'sides – we're not the ones in peril here.”

Papyrus sniffed. “THAT IS NOT THE POINT.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Dreemurr estate was, by most people's standards, nigh impenetrable. The areas closest to the house and along the wooded lane that lead back to civilisation were closely monitored by CCTV. The house itself had an alarm on every door and every ground floor window, as well as a laser weapons system of Alphys' design at every corner, and some of the strongest magical wards and protections ever devised as an added bonus. The wider grounds, while less stringently guarded overall, were nonetheless patrolled by a privately hired, highly trained monster security team.

It was a rare thing, therefore – an impossible thing, even – for anyone to enter or leave the premises without _someone_ knowing about it. Barring Sans and his infamous shortcuts of course, though thus far he hadn't exactly been forthcoming about how he did them.

Hence, Frisk's escape had to be very, _very_ carefully timed.

The truth was, they hadn't come to their siblings' memorial garden purely out of some silly need for closure. They hadn't risked crossing the courtyard in full view of their mother's bedroom window just for a chance to speak with the dead.

No – they'd also needed a place to _wait_.

Two-thirty in the morning. The time at which the Dreemurrs' sharp-nosed guard dogs changed shifts. The start, also, of the half-hour long window during which the CCTV cameras dotted around the estate took pause in their watchfulness. The main computer could only hold so much footage, after all – the recordings had to be configured and stored away _some_ time. Statistically speaking, two till three was as safe an hour as any.

It was, in short, the _only_ window of opportunity Frisk was liable to get. They had to make it count.

The memorial garden was quite close to the sheds, where Frisk's old bike – among myriad other childhood mementos – had been consigned to a long and lonely death many years before. Much as they would have preferred to leave behind no evidence of their parting whatsoever, the bike was a necessary evil unless they felt like walking for over an hour. Little Ebott wasn't as far as the city, but it was still a considerable journey without a set of wheels.

Not that they were in any particular rush since their train wouldn't arrive until six am. Still, if they _had_ to wait four hours, they'd rather do it in the relative comfort of the shelter at the station.

Getting to the shed and hauling the bike out was the easy part. The hard part would be getting from the sheds to the lane without being seen – or _smelled_. Frisk couldn't be certain how long the dog monsters would take to get back into position, nor exactly how wide each canine's range was. No matter what precautions they took, this part of the plan was – had always been – down to luck.

Swinging themselves onto the torn and faded seat – and noting with a twinge of nostalgia that the bike, once the perfect size, was a bit too small for them – Frisk took a deep breath and directed their gaze across the grassy no-man's-land of their parent's property. The trees that marked the start of the lane seemed an impossible distance from here, but if they could reach them – if, by some miracle, they cloud make it without alerting the dogs...

Freedom.

“Okay,” they breathed, bracing their right foot on the pedal. “Let's roll that dice.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this chapter was longer. _A lot_ longer. However, I'm too damn tired to properly edit it all, so rather than not upload anything at all, I decided to split it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: GRAPHIC TORTURE**

“Argh! AA-AA-AAAAAARGH!”

It was the kind of scream you wouldn't expect a grown man to make. High, and shrill, and helpless as a frightened child's. It echoed off the warm, wood-panelled walls, loud enough to split eardrums if, indeed, there had been any eardrums left to split.

Sans grinned wide, the expression coming to him with the ease of long years of practice.

“what a great sound,” he cackled. “you've got a good set of lungs there, pal. take it from somebody who doesn't have 'em.” He ground the heel of his foot into the guy's now-shattered hand, eliciting another sickening shriek. “yep,” he leered. “i could get used to this.”

After dealing with the bozos outside – all except the lucky fellow currently trembling beneath Sans' fine Italian shoes – the skeletons had entered the bar (unfortunate survivor in tow) to find the remnants of a massacre. Human bodies and piles of dust everywhere, tell-tale bullet holes in the walls and in the tables and – worst of all, in Sans' opinion – in the selection of fine liqueurs that had been on display behind the bar.

Of Grillby himself, there had initially been no sign. Sans had actually feared the elemental _dead_ – which is how their new friend had earned himself three of his four broken ribs – but had been much relieved when, on further investigation, Papyrus had found him nearly passed out in the walk-in freezer. Incidentally, that's how the forth broken rib was bestowed – Sans didn't have many close friends, but when one was mistreated he took great exception to it.

Grillby was currently sitting on a barstool, accepting Papyrus' attempts at healing with the same stoicism he used to approach much everything else. If he was bothered by the screaming, it didn't show.

“STOP! PLEASE, _PLEASE_ STOOOOOP!” the human shrieked. He was crying, tears and snot flecked with blood dripping down his stubbled cheeks and chin.

 _gross_.

Sans pressed harder.

“you're quite lucky, y'know,” he said conversationally, examining the blood crusting the phalanges on his left hand with interest. “my bro over there doesn't like this part of the job much. heh. he hasn't got the _stomach_ for it.”

Papyrus sighed. “THERE IS NO NEED TO TORTURE HIS MIND AS WELL AS HIS BODY, SANS.”

“sorry, bro.” He turned back to the whimpering human. “so ya see, i'm actually goin' easy on ya. but if ya don't gimmie what i want soon, me an' you are gonna take this outside.” He crouched, curling his fingers into the human's sweat-slicked hair and yanking him up to meet his gaze. He didn't remove his foot from the guy's hand. “then i'm gonna stop playin' nice,” he said lowly, smiling an unfriendly smile.

“I WOULD COMPLY, IF I WERE YOU,” Papyrus put in calmly. He didn't look at the human – Sans knew his brother found it easier to cope if he didn't have to see any faces. “MY BROTHER DOES NOT MAKE IDLE THREATS.”

“nope,” Sans agreed cheerfully. He released the human's head and moved to sit lightly on his back. Being small of stature and made entirely of magic and osseous matter, Sans knew he wasn't particularly heavy. Even so, the human started panting almost immediately, whining high and thin like a whipped dog. “so, we're gonna try this again, only this time, let's make it a game.”

He held his right hand in front of the man's face and summoned a bone in his palm. It was a small thing, no longer than a kitchen knife, with one smooth end for gripping and a snapped-off, serrated-looking end for... less pleasant purposes. Sans wrapped his digits around the handle deliberately. He thought he heard the young man beneath him gulp.

“i'm gonna ask you a few questions, and _you're_ gonna answer 'em,” he said softly, almost encouragingly. “an' if you don't, or if you lie or say somethin' i don't like, i'm gonna stick this knife wherever i happen ta be lookin' at the time. sound good?”

The human moaned and shook his head.

Sans jabbed the tip of the knife into his shoulder, shallow enough to serve as a stern warning, but deep enough to rip another shrill scream from his throat.

“wrong answer. you wanna try again?”

Another shake, more frenzied this time. The guy bucked his back and shoulders, trying to throw the skeleton off, but Sans forced him still with blue magic.

The bone-knife bit deeper.

“last chance, buddy,” Sans warned. “if ya think this is bad, you should see what i can do when pap isn't around.”

“ _AAAAAAAAAAGH! ALRIGHT! A-ALR-RIIIIGHT!”_

Sans pulled back and flipped the bone in his hand. With his other hand he gave the human's damp cheek a friendly pat.

“better,” he said approvingly. “now – what's your name, pal?”

“J-James!” The reply came on a sob. “James Bynes!”

“alright. an' what are ya doin' here, james?”

“I-,” James panted, “I c-can-AAARGH!”

“now see, it sounded like ya were about ta lie there.” Sans flicked blithely at the handle of the knife, now sticking out of James' other shoulder. “it _sounded_ like ya were about ta say y' can't tell me. but we both know y' can, don't we?”

“I _CAN'T!”_ James screeched, his whole body writhing in pain, unable to move under the influence of Sans' magic, but trying his best nonetheless. “I _CAN'T_! THEY'LL _KILL_ ME IF I TALK!”

“ _i'm_ gonna kill ya if ya don't,” Sans said, plainly and utterly without sympathy. He gave the hilt of the knife a pointed tap and felt the blade scrape against James' scapula. “think i'm the bigger problem right now, pal. but hey, i can see ya need some time to get used to this game, so let's start smaller – what age are ya, james?”

And so it went.

The thing about torture, the key detail that few people in the business ever understood, was that it wasn't as simple as flaying skin and popping kneecaps until you got what you wanted. It was much more delicate than that – a far more complicated process, one requiring skill and precision. It was... it was a balancing act. A precarious high wire dance, where leaning too far to either side would yield you nothing. Too much pain and you ran the risk rendering your victim insensate (and therefore useless); too little and it all became an exercise in time-wasting.

Sans had, by necessity, been toeing that fine line for _years,_ and unfortunately for James, he knew _exactly_ what he was doing. He knew when to push, when to let up, how to inflict the most pain for the least damage – where to cut, and how, and how deep...

By the time he was done, Sans knew James Bynes better than he knew his own mother (which wasn't hard, since he _didn't_ know his own mother – or if, indeed, he even had one). He knew _everything_ – from the really important stuff, like who he worked for, right down to the most irrelevant of details, like what he'd had for breakfast that morning. Sure, he had a few more holes in him than when they'd started – his endurance was actually quite impressive, all things considered – but one thing he _didn't_ have was secrets.

Sharing a glance with his brother over the limp and weeping form of James Percival Bynes (born September 11th 199X in Seattle, aged twenty-three , eldest of four siblings and son of Patrick and Mary Bynes), Sans knew he wasn't the only one troubled by what they'd just heard.

“the averys, huh?” Sans confirmed, resting the tip of the bloodied blade against an as yet unmarked patch of skin. James needed only the tiniest encouragements to spill his guts by now – he nodded weakly. “that's... less than ideal.”

The Avery Family were to the Dreemurrs what they North Side Gang had been to the Five Points Gang back in the day – bitter rivals and lifelong enemies. That said, things had been quiet for almost a decade.

The fact that that was obviously no longer the case did not bode well.

Sans dispatched James with a severing cut to his brain stem – it was quick and painless, a mercy really, and honestly, the kid was probably glad to go – before standing with the slow, aching weariness of a hard job well done.

Despite the sheer amount of bleeding James had done, Sans' suit was still immaculate.

Papyrus eyed him grimly. Grillby, still silent, looked pale.

“DO YOU EVER THINK, BROTHER, THAT PERHAPS YOU TAKE TOO MUCH ENJOYMENT IN YOUR WORK?”

Sans shrugged. He _didn't_ enjoy his work, but he didn't exactly hate it either. Truth be told, he didn't feel much of anything when it came to the job. The glee he affected during his 'sessions' was all an act, a tactic designed to make him appear unhinged and more dangerous than he actually _was_ to his victims. People, he'd found, generally gave him the information he wanted faster if they thought he was a psychopath.

If there was one aspect of the work Sans _did_ feel anything for these days, it was the mess he inevitably left behind him. Clean up was invariably a pain. Humans were always the worst too, with all that leaking they liked to do. His luck was in today, what with James' extra absorbent jacket to take the worst of the damage, but he'd lost far too many good suits that way in the past.

“what d'ya think? what did he mean with all that stuff about 'the skeleton'?” he asked, smoothly changing the subject. “think he was talkin' outta his ass?” It was a pointless question – Sans already knew he wasn't, and Papyrus knew it too. The _real_ question was, which skeleton did the Averys have in their sights, and _why_?

Sans got the uncanny feeling it was probably him. There was simply no way _Pap_ had done anything to warrant such deadly attention. He wasn't exactly sure what _he'd_ done to incite their ire either, but unlike with his brother, it wouldn't take long to put together a likely list.

“I DOUBT IT. WE MUST INFORM ASGORE IMMEDIATELY.”

“yep...” Sans rubbed a hand over his tired eye sockets. It was going to be a _long_ day. “but first we need ta get that truck unloaded and back to muff, or she'll skin us both.”

“WE DON'T HAVE SKIN.”

“either way, we're _boned_.” Sans chuckled, but his heart wasn't really in it. It was past three – they had less than an hour to make a two hour drive, or else face Muffet's infamous wrath. He already knew what he had to do, but he didn't relish it in the least. “i'm gonna have ta shortcut it.”

Papyrus looked worried but didn't argue. “YES. I THINK THAT'S OUR ONLY OPTION AT THIS POINT.”

Shortcutting, as Sans liked to call it, required relatively little magical energy most of the time. Of course, _most of the time_ Sans was alone, and the distances he had to shortcut were usually fairly small. Transporting himself _and_ a truck across over a hundred miles was a whole different ballgame.

“you guys go ahead and unload the truck. 'm gonna eat somethin'.” The idea didn't make him as happy as it usually did – eating lost all pleasure when he knew he would soon be expending all that energy in one short burst. “i'll phone the boss an' let him know what's happenin'.”

For once, Papyrus made no attempt to scold his brother's laziness.

 

* * *

 

 

After a long and boring wait, Frisk finally slipped past the doors of the train feeling like a fugitive.

Which, they supposed, was precisely what they were. Excitement and anxiety battled for dominance in the pit of their stomach, creating a roiling mess of nerves that made them feel nauseous and dizzy.

This was... it was a big step. A _life changing_ step. They were about to leave everything they knew and loved behind, and if ( _when_ ) they returned, it might be to discover their family no longer wanted to know them...

Still, there was no going back now. And it was for the best, or would be in the long run. They were sure of it.

As the train pulled away from the station with a quiet hum, Frisk found themselves wondering if anyone would come after them. Probably. Their parents weren't the type to let their only child disappear without a fight. The real question was, had they done enough to avoid being found?

Frisk thought so. They'd abandoned the bike at the town's only school, in the cycle sheds where it could easily be mistaken for one of the students' – supposing anyone thought to look in the first place. Afterwards, they'd walked the rest of the way to the train station with their hood firmly up and their head bowed low so no one could see their face (not that there had been anyone around to see anyway).

They'd done everything they could, taken every precaution.

They just hoped it would be enough.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Sans was having a rough morning.

First, he'd overshot Muffet's depot by about twelve miles. That was actually pretty good, considering he'd expected to miss by at least twice that – shortcutting was far from being a precise skill, and even on his best days Sans could easily miss his mark. The margin for error only increased the larger the distance and mass he was transporting, so really, he was lucky he didn't end up in Timbuktu or something.

Still, he'd underestimated the strain such a huge jump would put on his magic reserves, and he'd had to complete the nearly twenty minute drive back feeling like he could pass out at any moment.

Muffet had, of course, been delighted he'd made it back in time – more so when she learned the circumstances had saved them some fuel. She hadn't kicked up too much of a fuss, therefore, when he'd commandeered some of her stock to replenish his magic, and had even happily set him up on the couch in the break room for a power nap.

“wake me up at six,” he'd yawned. Two hours should be enough, he figured. By then, Paps should have made it back to the Dreemurr estate, and the day's work – of which, Sans knew, there would be plenty – could get started.

He'd been asleep before he heard Muffet's reply, which was unfortunate because if he'd heard her, he wouldn't have been so surprised when he was woken by his phone ringing at seven.

“BROTHER? WHERE ARE YOU? YOU'RE NEEDED IN ASGORE'S OFFICE RIGHT AWAY.”

“nnngh... what time is it?”

“SEVEN-OH-SIX... WERE YOU STILL SLEEPING?” It was a question Pap had asked him countless times in the past, but where normally the words were effused with scolding irritation, this time his brother's tone was sympathetic and understanding.

Sans groaned, rolling to his feet a little unsteadily. The nap had done him some good, but he still felt woozy. “dammit. i thought i told that damn spider to wake me up...”

There was a pause, then, “YOU ASKED _MUFFET_ TO WAKE YOU?”

“... good point.”

Though thankfully this time he wasn't taking a two tonne truck with him, the shortcut back home cost yet more of his already depleted magic, making him sluggish and irritable by the time he finally joined Pap in the boss' office.

Toriel was there too for the first time in years, which struck Sans as odd until – without preamble – she explained her presence.

“Frisk is gone.”

She was remarkably calm, Sans thought, while she said this. He, meanwhile, felt a shard of ice settle in his soul like a splinter.

As if this day hadn't been going bad enough already.

“how is that possible?” This was the Dreemurrs home turf for crying out loud. Nowhere in all Ebott County was safer. “d'you have any leads?”

“The guards saw nothing,” Asgore replied, ignoring the cutting look his ex-wife shot him. “The security footage equally shows nothing. Which means-,”

Sans got it. “that little snot,” he said disbelievingly, impressed despite himself. “they ran away from home.”

“TROUBLING NEWS INDEED,” said Papyrus, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “DOES ANYBODY KNOW WHY FRISK WOULD DO SUCH A THING?”

Sans had a few ideas. Judging by the glare she levelled at Asgore, Tori did too.

“I _told_ you,” she hissed, all semblance of calm falling away. “Didn't I tell you?”

“I thought they were ready...”

“You thought wrong!” Tori snapped. “And now your poor judgement has sent our child into the world alone and unprotected!”

Looking thoroughly chastened, Asgore solemnly replied, “I promise you, I will send our finest people to bring them home at once.”

Toriel sniffed dismissively. “And _what_ do you imagine that will accomplish? You cannot tie them to a future they want no part of! Do you _want_ Frisk to hate us?”

“No,” Asgore said sadly. “I wanted them to lead us.”

Thinking that perhaps somebody should say something before this devolved into a full blown domestic, Sans cleared his throat.

“maybe this is a good thing.”

Tori's expression, when she turned to him, was unreadable. “I beg your pardon?”

“hear me out...” He was, he noted with some surprise, slurring. _Stars_ , he was drained. It was getting harder to concentrate by the second.

Papyrus handed him a cup of espresso, fresh from the machine in the corner (where Sans had thought he'd been dithering for the last minute in an attempt to avoid becoming part of the Dreemurrs' well documented marital disputes). He accepted it with a grateful nod and downed it in one.

Ah. Extra magic. _Thank you, Papyrus_. While it was certainly no replacement for a good meal and a solid eight hours of sleep, it at least took the edge off a little.

Somewhat rejuvenated, Sans returned his attention to his employers. “maybe this is exactly what they need,” he continued, and even as he said it, he felt the truth of it all the way to his marrow. “frisk is naïve. a good kid, but naïve. it wouldn't be the _worst_ thing for them ta get out there an' see the real world in action. maybe get some perspective, y'know?”

“Are you suggesting we leave my child to their own devices with the Averys on the prowl?” Toriel demanded coldly.

“nah. 'm suggestin' we leave 'em to their own devices while _i_ keep an eye on 'em.”

Sans was honestly a little offended by the stunned silence that followed this statement. Even Papyrus was frowning at him.

 _Ouch_.

It fell to Asgore to voice the room's concerns. “Sans... you and Frisk do not exactly see eye to eye these days.” Even Sans could admit that was probably putting it mildly. “Are you certain you are the best candidate for the job?”

“i think i'm the _only_ candidate for the job.” He huffed at the dubious looks sent his way, stuffing his hands in his pockets sourly. “look, cards on the table; we all know i'm probably the reason frisk's got such a, uh... an _overdeveloped moral compass_. i showed 'em the darkest side of the business before they were ready an' i never really bothered ta, y'know, talk to them or anythin' after.” He shrugged. “maybe if we cleared the air a bit, they wouldn't feel so negative 'bout takin' over.”

“Do you really think making amends with them will convince them to come home?” Toriel asked. Based on her haughty expression, she probably meant that to sound harsher than it came out – instead she just sounded hopeful.

“maybe.” Sans knew better than to make promises he might not be able to keep. “maybe not. either way, they'll need somebody ta keep a socket on them till this stuff with the averys blows over.”

It went without saying, there was no one better suited to that task than Sans. Although his skills generally tended towards... er, less evenly matched arrangements, and despite his overall fragility, he _was_ an adept fighter when called upon. Not to mention his shortcuts provided a fast, _safe_ escape route from even the most difficult situations.

Plus, with the head start Frisk must have already gotten, he was probably the only one with the means to catch up to them now anyway.

“And how do you intend to locate them?” Asgore inquired. He was halfway convinced, Sans could tell; all he needed was one last push.

“honestly, i dunno. maybe there's something on their computer i could use?” He kind of doubted it. If they'd had the foresight their night time escapades seemed to suggest they had, it was likely they'd already taken steps to ensure they couldn't be traced that way. “failin' that, i guess i'll have to do it the old fashioned way.”

Even Frisk, determined as they were, couldn't have covered _all_ their tracks. Sans knew a couple of excellent Private Investigators, if it came to that.

Asgore nodded once, coming to a decision, and leaned forward on his desk. “Very well. I entrust you this task, old friend. You may begin immediately, and you are to keep me abreast of any and all progress.” He waited until Sans hummed his agreement before adding, “And I believe it would be best if Frisk remained unaware of our other situation for the time being. If they truly wish to leave us, I would have them do so with as few of our worries on their head as possible.”

“sure thing, boss.”

Sans didn't say so, but the thought of Frisk leaving – _permanently_ leaving – left him feeling... distinctly uneasy. Sure, he and the kid had their differences, but they were still... they were still _friends_ , weren't they? They were still family. And family looked out for each other.

So Frisk couldn't leave. It was unthinkable.

You couldn't look out for someone who wasn't there.

 

* * *

 

 

Much as he would have liked some time to unwind and recover from the morning's ordeals, Sans knew that the longer he took to get started, the harder finding Frisk would become. Hence, he kept his personal preparations to an absolute minimum. He returned to his room to shower and change, took a quick fifteen minute power nap, and then hustled to Frisk's room to grab their laptop before heading to the kitchen with the intention of devouring as big a breakfast as he could possibly stomach.

He was in the middle of brewing his third cup of coffee, a slice of buttered toast between his teeth, and halfway back to feeling normal, when Frisk's laptop finally (and unexpectedly) yielded him something.

As he'd suspected, Frisk had been quite thorough in concealing their intentions. Their browser history was empty, their personal bank account untouched but for the periodically large withdrawals they appeared to have made every so often (the last of such being a month and a half ago), and according to the GPS signal coming from their phone, they were still in their bedroom somewhere, meaning they'd left the device behind.

Sans had been on the point of contacting the internet provider and figuring out Frisk's browsing habits that way (which, considering the number of people actually living on the estate, had the potential to be an interesting endeavour indeed), when the program he'd been using to hack their email account suddenly pinged.

Scooping a generous amount of sugar into his coffee, Sans gave the machine a baleful glance. He rather doubted their emails would prove any more useful than anything else he'd tried had been – he'd be surprised if they hadn't already killed the address outright. In fact the only reason he was bothering, was to cover all his bases. Hey, you never knew, right?

Except when he looked, Frisk's inbox was apparently unmolested, the emails open but undeleted. The top five or six were confirmation emails from a number of travel companies, telling Frisk where and how to pick up which tickets, and the money they'd be expected to exchange for them on arrival (that was another smart move right there – cash only, so they wouldn't leave an electronic trail behind them. Sans could respect that, even if, in their excitement, they seemed to have forgotten about the emails themselves).

Sans finished his toast and took a long drink from his favourite mug (an old gift from Frisk, from back when they'd still been able to be in a room together without arguing – it had a bone printed on one side, and the phrase 'Don't be so _STERNUM_ ' on the other), hardly able to believe his good fortune.

“y' go through all that trouble,” he chuckled, opening the first email, “an' ya fall at the last hurdle. disappointing, kid.”

Within ten minutes, Sans had not only figured out which train they had taken from Little Ebott, but also which stop they'd be getting off at, and – through some more extensive digging – their final destination.

It was... quite the trek.

“atlanta, huh?” he mused, studying a message they'd received six months ago from some law school.

It did not escape Sans' notice that their chosen haven was just about as far as far gets from Ebott. Nor that the profession they allegedly intended to pursue was practically the antithesis of their family's one.

Sans checked the time. Impossibly, it was only ten past ten – with all the shit he'd had to deal with already this morning, it felt more like it should've been closer to mid-afternoon. He shut the laptop with a snap, then got to his feet and stretched.

Frisk's train would arrive at half past ten. He'd have to hurry if he wanted to meet them off it (and boy, would their face be a picture when he did!) but first he had to let the boss know what he'd found and where he – _they_ – were going.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know - it's late. Honestly guys, that's because college is kicking my ass. Between placement, classes and work, I'm either too busy or too tired to write much. I can't even guess when I'll update again. All I can say is I currently have every intention of finishing this story. Some day. Eventually.


	9. Chapter 9

Frisk was feeling quite good by the time they hopped off the train at their first stop. Much of the nervousness that had accompanied them since climbing out their bedroom window had abated on the journey, leaving only excitement and hope for the future in it's wake.

And guilt. There was that too. A tiny, niggling sorrow nestled deep in their soul, barely perceptible beneath the ferocity of their determination, but there nonetheless. They were, after all, leaving their home– their _family_. And without even one word of farewell. The next time they met, regardless of Frisk's earnest desire to win the monsters the rights they deserved, they would be facing each other from opposing sides. Frisk would be an _attorney_ , a defender of the law, even if – in the long run – their goal was to change that law. And their family, well, would _not_...

But enough of that. Those were grim thoughts, and grim thoughts had no business being thought of on a day like today. _This_ day marked the beginning of the rest of Frisk's life – they should be celebrating that freedom, revelling in it. Not dwelling on things that couldn't be changed anyway.

The digital clock on the platform proclaimed the hour as 10:33 – meaning they'd been riding the rails for just over four and a half hours now. They were, at least, somewhat rested, having slept curled up in the shabby, uncomfortable economy-class seat they'd bought the night before (travelling in anything that wasn't first class had been an exciting novelty, but it seemed to have done no favours for their back). Their next train wouldn't leave until later that afternoon, and while Frisk's original plan had been to find somewhere to sleep the hours away before the next leg of their journey, they quickly decided they were simply too keyed-up for that.

New plan; they were going to find somewhere to buy themselves a cheap breakfast, and then they were going to explore a bit of the town.

All by themselves.

Unescorted.

Grinning, Frisk shouldered their heavy rucksack and joined the crowd making it's way through the ticket barriers. They could get used to this.

Upon exiting the platform, however, the thrill of newfound independence was all but forgotten. Frisk's face fell immediately, the glee that had filled them mere seconds before replaced with utter despair at the sight that greeted them in the station proper.

He couldn't look any more out of place if he tried, though of course he took the stares and anxious whispers with practised ease. People parted around him like a school of fish around a shark, eyeing him in his immaculate white suit with suspicion and a hint of fear. For his part, Sans looked wholly uninterested in his surroundings – bored even, one might say. His hands were buried deep in his trouser pockets, his back and shoulders slumped in a way that was so exaggeratedly casual it could only be a facade. Though his eye sockets were half-lidded and his grin slack, Frisk could feel the tension rolling off him from where they stood.

He was, quite obviously, waiting for them.

_Well. That didn't take long at all._

Frisk stayed frozen where they were for a whole minute, debating with themselves the pros and cons of trying to run. Could they sneak away unnoticed? Would Sans think he'd missed them if they slipped into a bathroom to hide for a while?

They were still considering their options when his stance changed, the bright pinpricks of light that served as his eyes flicking up to regard them coolly. The way his languid grin stretched knowingly erased any notions they might have still had about fleeing.

“heya kiddo. fancy meetin' _you_ here, huh?”

Frisk scowled, though they could feel their cheeks reddening beneath their woollen scarf. They felt like a child who'd been caught skipping school.

They didn't bother to offer a return greeting and instead cut straight to the point. “What are you _doing_ here, Sans?”

“i could ask you the same question.”

Frisk huffed, turning their head and glaring at some indefinite point to the side. Their silence was telling, they knew, but any words they could offer would be just as incriminating. Besides, if he knew enough to intercept them, he probably already knew where they were going.

“see, i was _gonna_ apologise this mornin' for bein' an ass yesterday,” he continued. “only when i got back, your parents told me you'd up and disappeared. thought maybe you'd been kidnapped again. but then, if ya _had_ been, i reckon security woulda picked up _somethin',_ right?” Sans started walking towards them, hands still buried in his pockets, expression still deliberately insouciant. “a quick peek at your computer though, and sure enough – turns out our friskers had done a runner. so, you wanna guide me through this scenario, pal? 'cause it ain't makin' any sense from where i'm standin'.”

By the time he drew level with them Frisk's face was burning, a combination of chagrin, anger and shame turning their olive skin an ugly shade of puce. Their emails! They'd forgotten all about them in their haste to get away while the cameras were still down.

“I can't believe you went through my personal computer!” they snapped. The anger, at least, was easy to deal with – much more so than the guilt coiling in their stomach.

Sans looked at them like he knew exactly what was going on in their head. It made them even angrier.

“i can't believe _you're_ running away,” he retorted. “so what's the deal, pal – why _are_ you out here? where were ya goin'?”

 _Were_. Frisk did not fail to make note of his word choice.

They gritted their teeth.

“None of your damn business, skeleton!”

To their surprise, Sans chuckled. “ooh, hittin' where it hurts – right in the genus.”

Frisk said nothing, silently stewing in their rage. Distantly, they noted that the pair of them were drawing a lot of strange looks.

Sans sighed. “look – let's find a place to eat, yeah? breakfast's on me.” He gripped their shoulder gently, but without leaving any room for argument, and started steering them through the hoards of staring people. “then we can have a nice little chat, just you and me. sound good?”

It did not, in fact, 'sound good'. To Frisk, a private chat with Sans sounded the exact opposite of 'good'. But they were already halfway across the concourse, and to put up a fuss now would garner too much unwanted attention – and frankly, between the two of them they'd caused enough of a scene already.

The venue Sans chose was – of course – a bar. But the joint did offer a huge all day breakfast for just $4.99, and they _were_ pretty hungry, so Frisk didn't challenge it.

Upon entering, Sans directed his friendliest smile to the bored-looking girl behind the bar. “table for two, please.”

If she was surprised at the arrival of a monster, it didn't show. “Help yourself. Come order at the bar when you're ready.”

“thanks doll.”

He didn't let go of Frisk's arm until they were both settled in a booth together, tucked away in a quiet corner. The seats were sticky with the spilled booze of a thousand rowdy nights, torn in some places and faded in others. The table too had that slightly grimy quality, and the air smelled like cheap lemon furniture polish and cigarette smoke. There was a tacky caricature of Elvis Presley on the wall inside their booth.

Frisk grimaced as the pleather screeched and stuck to their skin. “Classy.”

Sans raised an eyebrow – or rather, the bone of his skull shifted to make it appear that he did. “i'm sorry – is this place not up to your standards, boss? thought y' were slummin' it? ain't that why you're travellin' economy class?”

“I'm not your boss,” Frisk grumbled. They ignored the rest of his comment entirely – they were in no way prepared to explain the necessity for cheap fares, nor reveal the truth behind their limited funds. He'd figure them out eventually, of that they had little doubt, but they weren't about to help him do so.

“but ya will be. and soon, or so your old man tells me.” He sat back, regarding them. “kinda makes me wonder about the timin' of this little escapade of yours.”

Sans' gaze, too sharp for his own good, made Frisk's insides squirm unpleasantly. They wondered if this was how insects under a magnifying glass felt. “Are we gonna eat, or not?” they huffed, crossing their arms belligerently.

“sure.” He turned back to the bar and raised his voice. “heya sweetheart, we'll have two breakfasts and some coffee over here when you've got a sec.” Ever the charmer, he winked and added, “and lotsa sugar, sugar.”

A somewhat surprised sounding giggle had Frisk rolling their eyes. “Coming right up.”

And then Sans' eyes were back on Frisk, two laser points of intense focus boring into their skull and picking all their secrets from within.

“so. now that we got that outta the way, let's cut to the chase, hm?” All traces of good humour gone, Sans leaned across the table and tapped one bony digit against the table in front of them. “what are ya doin' out here by yourself?”

“Sightseeing,” said Frisk defiantly.

“uh-huh, an' i'm runnin' a marathon tomorrow.”

“I _told_ you, it's none of your business.” There was no way they were going to tell him the truth – he'd laugh his proverbial ass off. Or worse, he wouldn't find the situation funny at all. “And I'm not going back either, if that's what you think.”

Too late, they remembered who they were talking to. Fortunately, for whatever reason, Sans decided not to press the issue.

“alright.” He leaned back again, studying them speculatively. “well, judgin' by your quick exit, lack of a note, and what you just said right now, i'm guessin' you're headin' off ta do somethin' y' don't want anybody knowin' about. that means either you're ashamed, or ya think it's better this way. since it's _you,_ an' you're about as wild and crazy as an old folks home _–_ no offence – i'm bankin' on the latter.”

“How-,”

“i ain't finished,” Sans casually interrupted. “the timin' makes me think it's got somethin' ta do with you takin' over as boss, since your pops talkin' ta ya about it is the only big thing that's happened recently – s' probably that y' don't wanna _be_ the boss, since ya just said ya don't wanna come back with me. you're goin' far away, if the invoices on your computer are any evidence, an' it looked like it was meant ta be a one way trip. how 'm doin' so far, kid?”

“... you have the deductive powers of a God,” they muttered with something akin to grudging respect.

“thanks.”

At that moment, the bar girl came over with their food and a pot of coffee on a tray. She laid out their order, giggled prettily when Sans offered her another wink and a compliment, then made her blushing way back to her post. Frisk shook their head in disgust.

“How do you do that?” they demanded, poking the yoke of their egg and watching as it's yellow contents spilled over the blackened bacon and greasy sausages. Already their mouth was watering, despite the fact that the food wouldn't be winning any awards for presentation.

“mm?” Sans was emptying half a sugar decanter into a cup of coffee blacker than the insides of his eye sockets. “do what?”

“ _Charm_ people like that.” They speared a sausage and took a generous bite. _Mmm,_ _heaven_. “That girl couldn't care less when we walked in, and now she's falling all over herself to please you.”

“jealous?” Sans asked with a smirk. Frisk favoured him with a dirty look, and he gave a hearty laugh before shrugging. “i dunno what t' tell ya, kid. 'm just naturally charismatic.”

“Good quality for a gangster to have, I guess,” said Frisk dryly.

Sans kept his expression neutral. “guess so.”

They ate in silence for several minutes, during which time Frisk plotted several exceedingly clever ways to escape him. None of them would actually _work_ , they were sure, but it amused them to imagine the scenarios anyway, if only to work off some steam.

“so... how long ya been plannin' to become a lawyer?”

Frisk almost choked on their bacon. They coughed several times to dislodge the chewed food, then swallowed down half a mug of coffee in one gulp.

“S-sorry?” they wheezed, certain they must have misheard.

“did i stutter, pal?” Sans seemed amused. “how long ya been thinkin' about joinin' the land of the law-abidin'?”

So he _did_ know. Or he'd guessed. Either way, the jig was up. Frisk saw no reason to insult his intelligence by denying it.

“A while,” they replied reluctantly. “How did you figure it out?”

“said it yourself, kiddo,” he grinned over the rim of his coffee cup. “'m a god of deduction.”

Frisk narrowed their eyes at him. “You saw it in my emails, didn't you?”

“yep.”

They groaned, exasperated. “If you already knew, why go through that whole interrogation bit?”

Sans shrugged. “wanted t' see if you'd come clean or not.”

“A test then?”

“if you like.”

The problem with Sans – rather, one of the _many_ problems with Sans – was that he was... _eccentric_. He might officially work for Frisk's parents, but he generally sung from his own hymn sheet. Worse, he played up to that image. A lot of the things he did, he did for completely arbitrary reasons, or at least, so it seemed to everyone else. It was futile then, for Frisk to ponder what advantage there could possibly be in testing whether or not they'd confess to something he already knew about in the first place. Was he testing their honesty? Their trust in _him_ specifically? Or was it something else entirely?

They would probably never know.

Somewhere in the midst of their fuming, Frisk noticed his plate had been cleaned.

They hadn't seen him take a single bite.

“You're not going to laugh?” they asked at last, if only to break the silence.

“kid, i think this is one of the few times we can actually agree on somethin'.” Stunned, Frisk raised their head. Sans' expression was bland. “nothin' about this is funny.”

Oh. Of course. Frisk lowered their gaze again, a little embarrassed at their mistake. Of _course_ he didn't like the idea of them becoming a lawyer. _Stupid_.

“I suppose you're going to drag me home then?” And tell their mama and papa, no doubt. They'd probably be grounded for life.

To their surprise, Sans' grin shrunk by several teeth, his sockets tightening in what they could almost believe was hurt. “really, kid? is that what y' think of me? that 'm jus' some hired goon, out ta make your life a misery?”

Well, if the boot fit...

Frisk wisely chose not to answer that.

At last Sans sighed, something weary and mildly offended in his tone. “'m not gonna ' _drag you home_ '. what's the point? give it a month, maybe two and we'll end up back here all over again.” When Frisk made no attempt to argue one way or the other, he cocked his head to one side curiously. “am i wrong?”

He was not. Frisk wasn't the type to give up so easily.

Cautiously, they shook their head.

“right. so, if _you_ won't come home with _me_...” He smiled rakishly at them. “guess _i'll_ just have ta tag along with _you_!”

For the second time that day, Frisk nearly choked on their breakfast.

“You – you can't be serious!” they spluttered, using a napkin to wipe egg yoke and bacon grease from their chin.

“nah.” Relief flooded their limbs, slackening muscles Frisk hadn't noticed tightening. It didn't last long. Sans gave them a wink before continuing, “i'm sans.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still alive. Still intend to finish this story eventually. That is all.


	10. Chapter 10

Frisk tried their best to shake him off, but Sans was still with them when the time came to catch their next train. He trailed after them sedately, smiling inscrutably as they ducked, dodged and otherwise circumvented the alleys, crowds and busy shops of the small town in an attempt to leave him behind. Every time they started to think they'd finally lost him, he would casually appear around the next corner, leaning up against a wall or railing as though he'd been waiting there for them the entire time.

It was _infuriating_.

He didn't even have the decency to acknowledge the fact that they were so obviously trying to evade him, offering little – if any – commentary on the subject each time he inevitably caught up to them again. Whenever he _did_ say something, it was invariably an awful pun.

“careful,” he'd said, after intercepting them in a bustling department store, pointing at a 'Wet Floor' sign nearby. “wouldn't want ya ta give me the _slip_.”

The end result was that they found themselves silently fuming beside him on the platform after several hours of trying unsuccessfully to lose him. With a mere five minutes left before their train was supposed to arrive, Frisk was acutely aware that they were running out of time. If they didn't do something, fast, it was extremely likely they were going to be stuck with him – at least until the next stop, where they would have all night to continue being unsuccessful in their escape attempts before catching a coach to Salt Lake City the next morning.

…

Subterfuge never was their strong point.

“Go _home_ , Sans,” Frisk growled at last, forgoing subtlety altogether.

Sans had been loitering with his hands in his pockets, staring contemplatively at the rails, his slumped posture making him appear shorter than he actually was. At Frisk's voice, he straightened, turning to regard them, not with a lazy grin as they might have expected, but with a seriousness he rarely exhibited.

“that an order, boss?”

Frisk felt their features twist in distaste. “I told you; I'm not your boss.”

He shrugged. “guess that's a 'no' then.”

He made no move to leave. Frisk ground their teeth in agitation.

“Arrrgh, _fine_!” they spat. “It's an order! Go _home_!”

The uncharacteristic solemnity broke like a fever. Amusement, as natural on his face as the skin was on Frisk's, washed away any sense of gravity he might have had.

“nah, don't think i will.”

“ _What_?!”

Smug, he clarified, “y' said you weren't my boss.”

“You – _you_ -,”

Whatever Frisk might have said was cut off by the sudden arrival of their train, it's wheels screeching as it slowed to a stop on the platform. Probably for the best, really. They weren't sure they wanted to piss the skeleton off when they were evidently going to be stuck on a train with him for three hours. God knew the journey would be long enough as it was.

Heaving their rucksack more securely on their shoulder, Frisk set their jaw and boarded the closest carriage without another word. They didn't bother to check if Sans was following – he wasn't the type to change his mind once it was made.

Frisk chose a seat close to the window, a set of four with a table in the middle, and deliberately set their bag on the seat beside them. Part of them wanted to spite Sans further by taking one of the non-table seats, but apart from the fact that he probably wouldn't care, they kind of wanted the extra leg room the table afforded. They weren't about to jeopardise their own comfort just to score an additional point against Sans.

Sans settled into the seat across from them, as they'd known he would, and immediately pulled his hat down to cover his eyes. He leaned back and stretched his legs out under the table, clasping his hands behind his head to serve as a makeshift pillow.

“i'd ask ya ta wake me when we get there,” he yawned. “but i think we both know ya won't.”

Frisk snorted. He wasn't wrong, even though they knew leaving him on the train would yield them nothing in the end. If nothing else, today had taught them that Sans couldn't be so easily shaken.

* * *

 

The motel Frisk chose for the night turned out to be much more welcoming than the cost would initially have had them believe. Sure, the decor wouldn't be winning any awards, and the room they ended up in smelled vaguely musky under the synthetic stench of lavender air freshener, but the sheets were clean, the facilities satisfactory, and there was even a well-stocked vending machine in the car park.

It would serve, they thought, dropping their bag beside the bed and throwing themselves onto it with a weary huff. The lime-green walls made their eyes hurt if they looked at them too long, but that was fine – they wouldn't be here long enough for it to become a real issue anyway.

The thought of a hot shower and a solid eight hours of sleep filled Frisk with determination.

“welp.” Sans' voice rung out from the still-open door, souring what little cheer they'd been able to recapture since first running into him. “if ya need me, i'll be right next door.”

“I _won't_ need you,” Frisk said bitingly, rolling away from him and into an upright position. They began digging through their rucksack for their pyjamas, pointedly ignoring him.

As it turns out, they never got the chance to try leaving Sans on the train. Although he'd slept for pretty much the entire journey – a fact Frisk was supremely grateful for, since it had spared them several hours of barely civil small talk – the skeleton had awakened with damn near supernatural timing, right before their stop. His timing was _so_ good, in fact, that it made them wonder if he'd really been sleeping at all.

“ouch,” Sans chucked. “keep that up an' i might start thinkin' ya don't want me here, sweetheart.”

“I _don't_.”

“alright, alright.” He held his hands up placatingly, though his eye lights twinkled with an amusement that marked his capitulation as somewhat less than sincere. “jeez... message received.”

Night attire gathered, Frisk made for the small mint-coloured bathroom without another word. Arguing with Sans was much like hurling stones at a mountain – tiring and pointless. He rarely took anything seriously, deflecting even the most pointed barbs with infuriating good humour. They were better off saving their breath.

“hey,” he called, before they had a chance to shut the door behind them.

“What?” Frisk sighed.

“'m sorry.”

That brought them up short. The one thing less frequent than Sans taking things seriously was him apologising.

“i never got a chance to say it. for the other day, y'know? i didn't mean ta give ya such a hard time.”

Frisk couldn't help but notice that he wasn't exactly saying he was _wrong –_ simply that he'd been a bit forceful. The distinction was not lost on them.

Still... he sounded sincere enough, even if he seemed to have missed the real issue entirely. Oddly, the fact that he bothered to apologise at all made them feel a little bit better. Loathe as they were to admit it, they could feel their ire towards him soften a little, their icy glare melting into something that – while not precisely _warm –_ was at least not quite as cold.

“... it's fine, I guess,” Frisk muttered. Then, feeling like they maybe owed him something too, they added, “I'm sorry too. I know I've been... extra prickly, recently.”

“'s fine.” Sans shrugged. “i know i'm extra good at _nettling_ ya.”

Taken by surprise, Frisk let out an ugly snort at the joke. They quickly covered their mouth, stunned and a little appalled and not at all surprised.

Sans gave them a predatory smile. “heh. that one _prickle_ you fancy, did it?”

Oh God, now they'd done it – they'd pushed the pun button.

“Stop,” said Frisk, trying to sound serious. “Get out.”

“nah. i think _thistle_ be fun.”

Frisk struggled to maintain their dignity, mouth contorting strangely as they fought to keep a straight face, but based on Sans' self-satisfied grin, they weren't enjoying much success. Growing up with Toriel Dreemurr for a mother had instilled in them an almost _involuntary_ appreciation for terrible jokes and goofy word play. And unfortunately for them, Sans was more than proficient in both.

So much for the reserved approach.

Seemingly warming to his theme, Sans asked, “hey kid, what do ya call a mean cactus?”

Resistance was futile at this stage, they knew. “... what?”

“a prick.”

Laughter, bubbling and bright, tumbled from Frisk's lips despite their attempts to hold it back. “Your sense of humour is awful!” they said between giggles.

“would ya say it _sting_ -ks?” He gave them a wink. “hey, _you're_ the one laughin'.”

“I am and I hate it!” Their own words took them by surprise – they sounded so much like Papyrus, that they burst into laugher all over again.

“heh.” Sans scratched his cheekbone almost bashfully. “anyway, uh. i'm gonna go ahead and get outta your hair now. figure we've got a long way to go still... should probably get some sleep.”

Frisk nodded, still smiling. They were tempted, just for a moment, to ask why he was so determined to come with them. Why, even knowing what they intended to do, he hadn't tried to talk them out of it. Hell, for as much as he'd managed to annoy them, Frisk had to concede that – apart from following them around all day – he hadn't actually _done_ anything.

Which begged the question; what was he even doing here? Had he been sent by their parents? Or was he here under his own steam? What was he trying to accomplish?

Unfortunately, there was no way to ask such a thing without damaging the tentative peace his puns had forged between them. Frankly, Frisk didn't have the energy for another argument tonight.

So with one last chuckle Frisk bid the skeleton a polite goodnight. They watched him back away and close their room door, then got on with the business of getting ready for bed. The spray of the motel shower was decidedly weak, but it was hot enough to soothe the ache of the day's trials from their muscles, and the bed, when they finally crawled beneath the covers, was soft and warm.

Through the thin wall behind their headboard, they could hear Sans moving about in his own room. The shuffle of clothes being dropped on the floor, the creak of bedsprings as he threw himself back carelessly...

He was snoring within moments.

Frisk fell asleep to the sounds of his slumber, and for the first time in years, felt a tiny inexplicable sliver of longing for the friendship the two of them used to have.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CHAPTER WARNING: MENTIONS OF EXTREMELY DISTURBING CONTENT; CHILD ABUSE; CHILD CRUELTY; CHILD MURDER; CHILD RAPE**
> 
> In regards to that last one - it's very short (one sentence, to be exact) and very vague, but it's still there.

Sans startled awake with a gasp, bony fingers skittering desperately across the starched sheets for purchase. In his mind, he could still hear the screams, could still _feel_ the flames licking at his back while the kid – so like Frisk, and yet so _unlike_ them at the same time – bled to death in his arms. If he concentrated hard enough, he imagined he could still detect the phantom whisper of her hair against the vertebrae in his neck, the gentle puff of her fading breaths against his sternum...

Shakily, Sans pressed a palm to his left eye socket. It was, he realised belatedly, throbbing, already ablaze with magic, the power painting his bones and the walls of the motel room blue. Being that he typically had excellent control over his own power, even while asleep, this came as something of a surprise. It took several minutes of intense concentration – much longer than he'd normally expect – to extinguish the glow .

“fuck,” he croaked, when the room finally faded back into darkness. “what the _fuck?_ ”

It had been a long time – a very long time – since Sans had had a full-blown nightmare. Sure, he had bad dreams now and then (who _didn't_ in this profession?) but they were always vague things, little more than fuzzy impressions of shadows and danger that Sans scarcely remembered come morning.

This one was different. This time the dream might as well have been branded on the inside of his skull. So clear, he could describe the exact colour of the inferno as he'd run down a seemingly endless corridor of fire. So vivid he could still smell the smoke, taste it in every panting breath as he lay there in a strange bed in a strange town with his soul throbbing in his throat.

It had felt _real_. As real as though it had really been happening... Realer than he felt right now, staring at a poorly plastered ceiling in the middle of two-bit nowhere.

As real as it had been the first time.

Bones slick with sweat and rattling beneath too many layers of cheap linen, Sans hastily heaved himself out of bed. The motel Frisk had chosen for the night was, to put it politely, very _affordable_ , and as such the rooms didn't have much in the way of facilities (a pity really; Sans would have _killed_ for a minibar in that moment). They did, however, have a small bathroom each, and it was there Sans headed now, flicking on the light as he passed and studying himself in the mirrored door of the (sadly empty) medicine cabinet.

 _Stars_ , he looked like shit. Dark circles like bruises lined his eye sockets, making them look much deeper than they actually were, and his normally bright pupils were dull and fuzzy around the edges – a sure sign of exhaustion.

“ _Sans... Sans, 'm scared...”_

Sans shuddered as the memory of Chara's small, frightened voice rolled through him. How long had it been now? Fifty years? Sixty? Not long enough, clearly, if he could still remember her voice.

“ _H-help me, Sans...”_

Nope. He wasn't in the mood to do _this_ to himself - not tonight.

Spinning away from the sight in the mirror, Sans made his way to the front door, pausing only to grab his phone and cigarettes from his jacket pocket.

It was cold outside, and windy – refreshing, after the clamminess of the bedroom. Not bothering to close the door behind him, Sans immediately took up position leaning over the balcony, trembling hands struggling to light a smoke while his blank sockets stared unseeing at the motel sign by the entrance. The flame took, after several tries, and he promptly took a long, calming draw.

Technically, smoking was a completely pointless endeavour for a skeleton – they had no lungs, nor a brain or heart; nothing for the chemicals to interact with. Nevertheless, it was a habit Sans had picked up from some of his fleshier acquaintances, and whether the relaxation he felt was real or imagined, the fact that he felt it at all had to count for something.

“ _Please... S-Sans...”_

Sans released the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, cigarette smoke pouring from his mouth and nasal cavity like steam from some kind of ghoulish kettle. Jeez, his mind just wouldn't quit tonight, huh?

Still unsteady, Sans flipped the phone over in his hand and pressed his first speed dial contact. There was only one person he wanted to talk to after a dream like _that_ , only one person he could count on to drown the remnants of Chara from his overactive imagination.

Papyrus picked up promptly on the third ring, despite the fact that, by Sans' estimate, it was probably about three in the morning. Fortunately, his brother wasn't much of a sleeper. “SANS? WHAT ARE YOU DOING AWAKE AT THIS HOUR? THE SUN ISN'T EVEN UP YET!”

Like a balm, Papyrus' loud voice was instantly soothing. Sans could feel the tenseness in his shoulders slowly drain away, his fingers, tight enough around his phone that he swore he could hear the thing _creak_ , loosening into something resembling a more natural grip.

“nothin',” Sans lied. Then, realising how ridiculously inadequate that sounded considering he was phoning his brother at a time when he'd normally be fast asleep (and knowing that Papyrus would press him until he finally cracked anyway), he added reluctantly, “jus' had a nightmare.”

“... OH. DO YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT?”

“not really.”

Talking about it was the _last_ thing Sans wanted.

Few people – by which, he meant only himself, Asgore and Toriel – knew what had _really_ gone down that night almost half a century ago. The official story was that Sans had gone after Chara and Asriel after they disappeared from a school fair, and that by the time he'd found them it was already too late. And that was... _true_ , he supposed. But it wasn't the whole truth.

For one thing, most folks assumed the Dreemurr kids had been _kidnapped_ from the fair, when in fact they had not. They'd left _willingly,_ entirely of their own accord, and for reasons no one, to this day, fully understood. Was it just bad luck that Chara's old gang – or rather, the gang that had 'owned' her biological mother – found them before the monsters did? Or had the kids sought the scumbags out with some half-baked idea of confronting them? Chara, in their last moments on this earth, had never said, and Sans hadn't been in the right frame of mind to ask.

Did he want to talk about how, even though the fact that he'd been too late to save them was irrefutable, he hadn't been late enough to avoid watching them both die? Did he want describe how Asriel had wept as he turned to dust before Sans' very eyes, his entire chest slashed open from shoulder to hip? Or how Chara had seemed to bleed endlessly, coughing the stuff up from lungs punctured by her own broken ribs, and oozing it from a place that no child should bleed? Did he want to detail how he'd held the broken human against his chest as he fled, her quiet pleas and moans of pain getting weaker with every step, her pockets full of her brother's dust?

No. No he did not.

What Sans wanted wasn't a therapy session – he wanted a distraction.

Fortunately, Papyrus knew when not to pry. He promptly changed the subject when it became clear Sans had nothing else to say, launching into an overly detailed status report on the state of things back home. The natural volume and confidence with which he spoke was oddly comforting – exactly what Sans had needed in his nightmare-addled state.

As to the progression of the shitshow Sans had left back in Ebott, there wasn't actually a lot to tell. Undyne had taken a bunch of heavies to shakedown a well-known Avery club in the city centre, Mettaton was keeping an ear to the ground in the burlesque circuit (where a lot of the hottest gossip tended to circulate before making it into the spotlight), and Alphys had spoken with a few of her contacts in other gangs to see if they knew anything.

So far, all they'd managed to ascertain was that it was Javier Avery – the head honcho's third son – spearheading the operation, and that he seemed, by all outward appearances, to be working alone.

Sans snorted. “sure he is. smart old bastard.”

Having Javier take all the credit was a smart move on two counts. First, it basically tied the Dreemurrs' hands; they couldn't very well stage a full scale war without actual proof that anyone but Javier was involved. Most ordinary people assumed mobsters were a bunch of lawless ingrates, and to an extent that was true – but if hard-hitters like the Dreemurrs and the Averys went about their business in the disorganised, cut-throat manner of the smaller gangs, well... It would be anarchy, plain and simple.

And anarchy was bad for business.

Second, if by chance this little plot went south, the family itself stood to lose very little. Oh, Javier would be a dead man, that was for certain, but that's where it would end. From what Sans had heard, Lawrence Avery had plenty more sons to spare, and few qualms when it came to gambling with their lives. Javier, far from being the man's heir, was certainly no exception, and would no doubt be quite happy to be gambled in any event - assuming he could pull it off, killing Sans would earn the man quite a bit of prestige.

“IN ANY CASE, JAVIER IS PROVING HIMSELF A DIFFICULT MAN TO FIND,” Papyrus concluded. “THE ATTACKS STOPPED SHORTLY AFTER YOU LEFT, AND ACCORDING TO OUR SOURCES HE APPEARS TO HAVE LEFT THE CITY ALTOGETHER... THOUGH NO ONE CAN TELL US EXACTLY WHEN, OR HOW, OR WHY.”

There was a meaningful pause. Neither said it, but if Javier really had flown the coop... well. At least they knew who the kid was after now. Not for the first time, Sans wondered what he could possibly have done to make himself such a powerful enemy.

Of course, it would seem that wasn't their only problem. The very fact that Javier was _aware_ Sans had left presented it's own dilemma.

The Dreemurrs had a mole.

“i hear ya. i'll be careful.”

“AS WILL I.”

Despite everything, Sans actually found himself feeling a bit better _._ Sure, things in general seemed to be going straight to hell in a hand-basket, but this was exactly the kind of shitstorm he was trained for. _This_ he could deal with.

“SO...” Papyrus started after a moment, his voice taking on that scolding tone Sans knew all too well. “HAVE YOU APOLOGISED TO FRISK YET?”

“yes, _ma_ , i apologised ta frisk,” Sans sighed, though his voice lacked any malice. “things are... better. least i think they are.” He felt one side of his mouth quirk up in a crooked smile. “i made 'em laugh.”

“GOOD. THAT IS VERY GOOD.” There was a lull while Papyrus hesitated over his next question. Sans waited patiently for him continue. “DID... I MEAN HAVE YOU... TALKED WITH THEM? ABOUT ALL... THIS?”

“no.”

As friendly as they'd been with each other before parting ways for bed, Sans knew better than to think they were _there_ yet. He knew, without having to try, how that particular conversation would turn out right now. Frisk was too set in their ways, too firm in their own beliefs, to listen to what Sans had to say just yet. If he tried to talk things out now, they'd just end up arguing again.

Because it wasn't as simple as just apologising for what they'd witnessed all those years ago – not least because any apology he might offer them would be disingenuous at best. No, Sans knew he was going to have to tell them the _truth_. Which meant, one way or the other, he was going to have to tell them about Chara and Asriel...

And a few laughs, however pleasant they had been, were not enough to make Frisk ready to hear that yet. Not nearly enough.

Thankfully, Papyrus also knew his brother well enough to trust his judgement. He gave a thoughtful hum, but his words, when he next spoke, were free of skepticism. “I SEE. WELL... DO NOT DELAY TOO LONG BROTHER.”

“i won't.”

They ended the call not long after and, rather than return to bed where sleep would no doubt continue to evade him (or else be riddled with unpleasant nightmares when it _did_ come), Sans stayed on the balcony, smoking his way through the last of his cigarettes, and very deliberately not thinking about anything.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG! Another chapter so soon? But OpalFruits, I hear you say: you're supposed to disappear for months on end between chapters! Not today, dear Reader. Not today!
> 
> In all seriousness, I've reached the midway point of my course and have a precious window of time wherein I've finished all the assignments I had for Term 1 and haven't been given the assignments for Term 2 yet. Meaning I have me some spare writing time for a change! So, yey!
> 
> Also, big thanks to everyone who is still hanging on here and has given kudos or left a comment - I may not always answer, but I always care!


	12. Chapter 12

Frisk woke the next morning to a polite knocking on the door. Groggy, they struggled for a second to remember where they were, and then spent a further second trying to free themselves from the cheap linen blankets that had wrapped themselves around their legs.

The sun stabbed at their eyes through drapes thinner than toilet paper.

_Knock, knock._

“Urgh... wh-who's there?” they groaned, throwing an arm over their face. Ew – they'd been drooling in their sleep.

“adam.”

Too tired to recognise the setup for what it was, Frisk scrunched their eyebrows in genuine confusion.

“ _Adam_? Adam _who_...?”

“up an' _adam,_ kiddo. time's a' wastin'.”

“Oh _God_ ,” they moaned, suddenly catching on. They buried their head beneath their pillow, memory returning in an unpleasant flood. “ _Sans._ ”

“in the flesh,” he chuckled. “y'know – _sans_ the flesh. can i come in? got ya some breakfast.”

“Did you bring coffee?”

“ _obviously,_ ” he replied, sounding affronted.

Frisk swung their feet out of bed and stretched deeply. They dressed quickly in the clothes they'd worn the day before, and stuffed their pyjamas back into their backpack haphazardly. Thus ready for the day, they opened the door to admit the skeleton with a suspicious scowl.

“ _You're_ up early,” they noted, accepting one of the coffee cups from him.

“meh. bed wasn't all that comfy.”

Frisk frowned. Sans had a well-documented ability to sleep literally anywhere. Back when they'd still lived in the city, Frisk had once found him draped across the monkey bars at their favourite park, snoozing soundly while a bunch of kids nonchalantly climbed over and around him. The idea that there was a mere _mattress_ uncomfortable enough to keep him from slumber was downright laughable.

Sans must have caught the expression on their face because he grinned and shrugged. “what can i say? guess these bones are gettin' old.”

“Right...” Frisk didn't believe him. There was obviously more to it than that, but if he wanted to keep his little secrets that was fine by them. “Maybe you should take your old bones home in that case.”

It was a long shot, the knew that before the words even left their mouth. They weren't the least bit surprised when Sans brushed the suggestion off. “and miss your grand adventure, pal? perish the thought.”

“Figures,” they sighed, grabbing a warm bagel from the paper bag Sans had brought. “But you know, you're gonna have to go home some time. You can't follow me forever.”

“i won't need to.”

That was all he could be coaxed to say on the matter, so in the end Frisk gave up and focused on getting ready to catch their coach. Not that there was much to _get_ ready – Frisk had made sure to pack precious little of their belongings, figuring that when they got to Atlanta they would just start afresh. Some clothes, their savings, and a few sentimental pieces, that's all they needed for this journey.

Packing done, Frisk went to the front desk to check out while Sans began the process of cleaning out the vending machine of all it's Twinkies. The skeleton was unusually fond of them, especially when they were dipped in ( _ugh_ ) ketchup. They joined him just in time to see him turn around with an armful of the cream cakes, their nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Those are so bad for you,” they said, stepping past him to peruse the machine's selection for themselves. They bought a few cereal bars and a bag of dried apple chips.

“for humans maybe.” He opened their backpack, abandoned on the pavement while they made their own purchases, and dumped his stash inside. “pretty sure a skeleton doesn't hafta worry about heart disease.”

Frisk turned around and, discovering what little space they'd had left in their bag taken up by Twinkies, let out an irritated sigh. Sans winked when they glared at him, unwrapping one of the cakes and taking an exaggerated bite. They stuffed their snacks on top and clipped the flap closed again.

“where to boss?” Sans asked around a mouthful of sponge and cream.

“I'm not your boss,” they said, exasperated, but they did a quick scan of their surroundings to get their bearings anyway.

The motel was well-situated, close to what passed for the town centre in this place. The mall was only a few blocks away, and if they took a shortcut – a _regular_ shortcut, that is – through it, the bus station should be practically next door.

“This way,” they pointed, starting west past a tiny gas station and an even tinier mechanic.

The walk was silent. Sans, much as he had on their first day together, trailed behind sedately while Frisk walked briskly ahead. They weren't actively trying to escape him – if they couldn't get away with the help of narrow streets, dingy alleyways and bustling crowds, it was unlikely they'd succeed on an open road like this one – but they weren't exactly bothered about him keeping up either. They may have come to an uneasy understanding yesterday, but it changed nothing.

He was still far from being welcome.

The mall was empty at this time of morning. Most of the shops were still shut, the few that were open manned by bleary-eyed sales clerks with grim faces. They passed a coffee shop, no doubt the very one Frisk's own cup had come from, the only occupants a couple of caffeinated students behind the counter.

Sure enough, when they exited the mall on the other side two coaches thundered by on the road in front of them, one after another. They both turned right into a wide concourse that could only be the station.

“I need to pick up my ticket from the office,” said Frisk, eyes skimming the area for a likely-looking entrance. “There,” they pointed, gaze alighting on a set of automatic sliding doors some way away. “That's probably it.”

Sans made a non-committal sound. “so lemme get this straight – ya had the sense to remember and pay for your tickets in person,” he said slyly, “but ya forgot to delete your emails?”

“Shut up,” Frisk grumbled, but there was no real bite to their admonishment. “I was in a hurry, okay?”

“clearly. makes me wonder what ol' fluffybuns said ta spook ya so bad.”

“You know he talked to me?” they asked, surprised. Until yesterday at the train station, they hadn't seen or spoken to Sans since the argument they'd had after school the day before – he certainly hadn't heard news of Papa's pep talk from _them_.

“figured he might.”

Of course he did. This was Sans, after all – the skeleton seemed to know everything about everything.

Frisk was silent while they crossed the road, debating whether they should tell him about it or not. On the one hand, it was really none of his business – and besides, he'd spent a lifetime as a gangster, so he probably wouldn't get it even if they did tell him. But on the other...

They really wanted to tell _someone_... More than that, they wanted someone to _listen_.

“He...” they began, when they reached the other side of the road, turning to face him. “Papa, that is... he wanted me to... to start, um...”

“training to take over?” Sans suggested.

Frisk nodded. “I thought I'd have more time... a week, at least, to say my goodbyes.” No doubt Sans was smart enough to figure out the significance of _that_. “But then Papa started going on about sending me to stay with Muffet for _work experience_ and I... I panicked.”

“mm,” Sans hummed agreeably. “guess that woulda thrown a wrench in your escape plans, huh?”

Frisk slanted him a defiant look. “Yes, it would.”

“so, sweetheart – ya ran away from your family 'cause ya don't wanna hang around with muffet?” Sans chuckled. There was an edge to the sound that Frisk didn't like. “i mean i can't blame ya, she's pretty scary when she wants ta be – but don't ya think that's kind of an overreaction?”

There he goes again, irritating the hell out of them without even trying. Would it kill him, just _once_ , to take them seriously?

“It's more than that and you know it,” Frisk said through gritted teeth.

“yeah?” He tilted his jaw a little – just slightly, but it was unmistakably a challenge. “ _tell_ me then.”

They were nearing the ticket office, having both unconsciously started walking again when the conversation started going south, and if they hadn't already been drawing looks on account of Sans being a skeleton, Frisk was certain their red cheeks and increasingly furious pace would have done the job.

“I don't know why I thought I could trust you to just listen for a change,” they hissed.

“i dunno why i thought i could trust _you_ to be honest,” Sans fired back, his grin mocking. “if y' can't even _say_ it, what makes you think i'll hear _anythin_ '?”

Frisk had no idea what he meant by that, and they were angry enough that they didn't bother to ask.

* * *

 

Sans watched them storm off, his hands clenched into bony fists in his pockets. He had the distinct feeling that he'd mishandled the situation ( _again_ ) but he was mad enough that – for the time being – he didn't really care.

Ignoring the curious stares of the few loitering humans in the area, he started after Frisk slowly, sullen gaze riveted to his shoes as he crossed the lobby at his leisure.

 _I don't want to be like **you**_.

Regardless of what he'd just told them, Frisk didn't _have_ to say it for Sans to know that that's what they meant. They didn't want to be like him. Or Paps. Or their parents. Or... well, _any_ of the monsters they'd grown up with.

And that was... fine, he guessed. Not ideal, granted, but not the end of the world either. They could have worked around that, could have installed Frisk as a figurehead and left the running of the show to someone who _did_ want the job. Sure, maybe they didn't like that the job had to be done in the first place, but they'd have understood why it was necessary, in time, if they'd just given the monsters a chance to explain.

And Sans would have been on their side, if they'd just _confided_ in him. He would have _helped_ them.

He supposed that was the worst thing – the thing that hurt most. The fact that they clearly didn't trust him, even though he'd done nothing but protect them their entire life.

Frisk was too soft for this work. Too kind. He'd said it all along, and hell, he got it – this kind of thing... it wasn't for everyone. What he didn't get, however, what he would _never_ get, was how _this –_ abandoning their family and deliberately putting themselves on the opposite team – was the best solution they could come up with.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sans, you bonehead,  
> Frisk's feeling blue.  
> This chapter, dear Reader  
> Is my gift to you!
> 
> Happy Valentines Day!


	13. Chapter 13

Papyrus Aster was a skeleton of standards.

Though it was, he would admit, _unusual_ for a man of his profession – enough so to give many the impression that he was somehow ill-suited to his work – Papyrus still wholeheartedly believed in a great many things. Things like manners, for example. And healthy eating. And good personal hygiene. And other things too, things normally only associated with people who lived on the right side of the law, like honesty and justice and morality.

Most significantly, however, he believed in  _people_. Papyrus truly and earnestly believed in the inherent goodness in everyone, and it showed.

Which was probably why such a great number continued to gravely and repeatedly underestimate him. 

It was true Papyrus had no taste for violence like Undyne or his brother, and he'd be the first to admit he had little and less aptitude for the practical side of things like Muffet. There _was_ one job he excelled at however.

Intelligence.

The fact of the matter was, despite the impression of harmlessness he gave simply by virtue of his nature, Papyrus was – in his way – far deadlier than his brother and his best friend combined. Knowledge was power, and in that he couldn't be beat - there wasn't a single, solitary snippet of information that _anyone_ in the whole Dreemurr Syndicate knew, that Papyrus the skeleton didn't also know. He made it his _business_ to know, and he did so in a manner so innocuous – so _subtle_ – that few people truly understood how dangerous he was until it was already far too late.

The monster he and Undyne dragged before Mr Dreemurr at eleven am the morning after his brother had called was by no accounts a bad monster. He had not, Papyrus was certain, acted out of malice, and in fact there was every chance the poor man hadn't fully understood the ramifications of what he was doing.

Unfortunately, Nak had acquired a taste for the finer things, and his job as a liaison between the speakeasies of the west side and the Dreemurrs out by the mountain afforded him very little room to enjoy some of his more expensive habits. Papyrus, naturally, knew almost everything about him. He knew, for example, that Nak had been spending a lot of time 'off the grid', as it were – which was basically synonymous with 'in enemy territory' if even Papyrus couldn't track him. He knew Nak had been spending more and more extravagantly over the past few months, exhausting his salary and then some on frivolities.

He knew too that the hawklike monster didn't have any family. That made Papyrus feel both better and worse, all at the same time.

“Come on, Pap!” he cried, secured between a stoic Papyrus and a fierce-looking Undyne, feet dragging behind him as he struggled. “It wasn't me! You know me, man, you know it wasn't-,”

“Quiet, traitor!” Undyne snapped, allowing her magic to flare angrily before reining it back in. “Spare me your bullshit!”

Papyrus said nothing. His silence and the weight of his disappointment, he'd found, were much more effective tools in these situations than anything he could possibly say out loud.

“Please, Papyrus...” Nak whimpered. “I'm _sorry_.”

It gladdened Papyrus to hear it, though of course it was too little, too late.

“I AM SORRY AS WELL,” he said at last, as they drew level with Mr Dreemurr's office.

It was all very routine from there. Undyne took great relish in her work while Asgore asked his questions, and Papyrus stood against the wall beside the door, studiously ignoring the screams and wails and pleas sent his way. It wasn't as difficult for him as it should have been – as it _used_ to be. He was, he supposed, too used to it by now. And besides, Undyne wasn't as... _thorough_ as Sans was.

When all was said and done, and Nak was a broken, sobbing mess on the floor, Papyrus finally addressed him.

“I STILL BELIEVE IN YOU.”

Nak glanced up, his face swollen and his left eye leaking dust. “Y-you do?” he asked thickly.

“I DO.” Then he drew his gun – deplorable thing – and shot Nak directly in the soul.

With the blink of an eye, Nak was nothing but dust.

It was his mercy – the only mercy Nak could have hoped for at this stage. Some kind words, a quick death, and – when the time came – a proper funeral. Because even misguided fools deserved that much.

Undyne whistled. “Damn, Pap. _Harsh_.”

Papyrus shrugged, carefully replacing the gun in it's holster inside his jacket. He knew Undyne would never understand it, could never comprehend the real kindness he had done Nak, and so he didn't bother trying to explain it. “IT HAD TO BE DONE,” he said instead, because it was true. “WE CANNOT SUFFER TRAITORS TO LIVE.”

Doing so in the past had cost them entirely too much, as Undyne well knew.

“I know... But _fuck,_ dude. You didn't have ta give the guy false hope.”

“BETTER TO DIE _WITH_ HOPE THAN WITHOUT.”

“If you say so...”

He did. Hope was everything, especially in a world as dark as their one. Without hope, there was only despair – and to live in despair for even a moment was a fate far worse than death.

“This troubles me,” Asgore said at last, face grim, fingers steepled over his desk. “If Nak was telling the truth-,”

“Trust me,” Undyne sniffed. “he was.”

“-then Frisk and Sans are in grave danger.”

“DO YOU WANT ME TO WARN MY BROTHER, SIR?” Papyrus asked stiffly. It was mere formality; it didn't matter _what_ Asgore said, he was going to do it regardless. Even for Papyrus, whose loyalty to the Dreemurrs was as absolute as absolute gets, there were some things he wouldn't hesitate to defy them for.

His brother was one such thing.

“Yes, do so.” Asgore smiled wryly. “We both know you will anyway.”

Papyrus didn't try to deny it. Instead he nodded gratefully and immediately set about composing a cryptic but succinct message – it went without saying that Frisk was to be kept firmly out of this, and so subtlety was key. Sans would know what the code meant.

“So what now?” Undyne asked while Papyrus tapped away at his phone. “You want I should get a team together and hunt 'em down?”

Asgore appeared to think about that for a moment, his troubled gaze locked on some indeterminate point in the distance. “No,” he said at last, as Papyrus returned his phone to his pocket. “A large group of monsters travelling so far from Ebott would draw too much attention. You would end up walking straight into an ambush.”

“So... what? We just sit around and do nothin'?”

“I have the utmost faith in Sans' ability to protect both himself and Frisk,” Asgore rumbled, tapping his claws against the desk thoughtfully. “However... I dare say some small measure of backup wouldn't go amiss.” He turned his penetrating stare on his two subordinates, something final in his eyes. “Papyrus, Undyne – you are to make yourselves ready for travel _immediately_ , and catch the first plane to Frisk and Sans' current location... or as close to it as you can get.” He stood, folding his arms behind his back. “You are to follow their progress – at a distance – and keep an eye out for anything suspicious. Should you detect such, you are to forewarn Sans and _nothing more_.”

“What?!” Undyne exclaimed. “Ya mean we're basically _look outs_?!”

“Precisely.” Asgore regarded her unflinchingly. “Frisk _cannot_ know you are there. They are obviously dealing with something very complicated and personal, and the last thing I want is for them to question their freedom to do so in whichever manner they please. Knowing my child as I do, I suspect having Sans there is already enough of an imposition.”

“But what if-,”

“As I already said,” Asgore interrupted in a tone that brooked no argument. “I believe Sans to be quite capable. You are to follow them, scope out their surroundings, and keep Sans abreast of anything that might pose a threat. You may reveal your presence _only_ in the most dire of circumstances. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“YES MR DREEMURR. I WILL INFORM MY BROTHER OF OUR DEPARTURE IMMEDIATELY.”

“Very well then. You may go.”

The two left the office with quick, purposeful strides, making their way to the main entrance where they could climb the staircase and access their respective rooms.

“So,” Undyne said, as they swept down the deserted corridor towards the foyer. “what did that bonehead _do_ that has Javier Avery on his ass?”

Papyrus responded without breaking his stride, his quiet voice betraying the true extent of his worry. “I wish I knew...”

* * *

 

Sans read the two texts with as straight a face as he could manage, though he could feel the corners of his mouth twisting in an angry scowl despite his best efforts.

Nak, huh? He _knew_ there was something he didn't like about that guy. And now that he thought about it, Sans realised he'd been seeing him around a lot more frequently these past couple months – cosying up to Papyrus, staying longer after his meeting with the boss for no apparent reason, sniffing around the offices when he thought no one was looking... Sans had just thought he was on the prowl for a promotion. Suddenly it all made so much sense.

He put his phone away, slipping it into his jacket before crossing his arms and staring straight ahead. His face, he knew, was probably a picture – the old woman in the seat beside him was not-so-subtly cringing away from him, her rheumy eyes wide and unmistakably frightened. Sans felt bad about that. He wasn't in the habit of scaring innocent old ladies, and it wasn't his intention to start... He was just so _pissed_.

Honestly, he wasn't sure which was worse. The fact that Nak had obviously been spying on him, feeding his enemies valuable company information and putting not only Sans, but everyone associated with him at risk; or the fact that in doing so, Papyrus had been forced to put down someone he had considered a friend.

If there was such a thing as the afterlife, Sans hoped Nak was there now, appreciating exactly how easy he'd gotten off. Sans wouldn't have been half so lenient.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts as the bus pulled to a complete stop, the sudden flurry of movement as people started getting ready to disembark startling him out of his black meanderings. Frisk, who'd been seated across the aisle from him, immediately got up and marched away without a backward glance. They managed to put three other passengers between them before Sans had a chance to object.

Sans sighed deeply.

They hadn't spoken to each other since the argument this morning, and it would appear Frisk had no plans to break that trend now. Which was unfortunate, because it was now up to Sans to find a way to stall them so that Pap and Undyne had a chance to catch up.

 _welp_ , he thought as he gathered his magic for a shortcut. _guess i'll just have ta get creative_.

He heard the old woman yelp comically as he disappeared from her sight, and couldn't help a tiny twinge of amusement when Frisk made the same sound as he appeared in front of them.

“where's the fire, kiddo?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <https://sorceresszee.tumblr.com/image/170984913342>
> 
> Can we all take a moment to appreciate this beautiful piece of fanart? Seriously, how awesome is this? Frisk's expression is just amazing! Drawn by the wonderfully talented Curiouser Yet Curiouser - thank you so much, it's wonderful!
> 
> On another note, my course starts up again in earnest this week, so updates will likely peter out again for a while. I'll do my best to have at least one a week, but you know how it is. If it's any consolation, the course will be finished by June so...


	14. Chapter 14

Frisk paced an irritated line into the carpet. They were in the guard office of some hick train station in the middle of nowhere, alone but for Sans, who'd been stopped at the ticket barrier ( _again_ ) for no damn reason. The station guard had proceeded to search him thoroughly – somehow completely missing the gun Frisk _knew_ was hidden on his person – before leading the two of them back here for 'questioning'.

It was the third such incident today. Frisk was _beyond_ mad, not just because this was exactly the kind of blatant discrimination that had (at least partially) inspired their departure from Ebott in the first place, but also because they'd almost certainly missed their train at this point. Of course, they'd already missed their _original_ train after they'd gotten detained at the first stop for three hours, and the second for forty minutes, but now they'd probably missed the back-up train too.

Frisk was grateful they'd had the foresight to buy open-ended tickets, or who knows how much these diversions would have ended up costing.

A counterpoint to Frisk's seething rage, Sans was actually remarkably laid back for a guy who was handcuffed to a chair. His arms were twisted up behind his back in a position that would have been painful for anyone with muscles actually attached to their bones, the cuffs threaded through the chair in such a way as to make upper body movement impossible. For all that though, Sans seemed unfazed – his eyes were shut in a peaceful doze, an almost beatific smile on his face.

If anything, his aura of utmost calm just made Frisk madder.

Much as they desperately wanted to, unpleasant experience had long since taught them that leaving the skeleton behind was simply not an option. When he got stopped the first time, Frisk had tried to pretend they didn't know him – they'd kept walking, ignoring the commotion behind them and inwardly rejoicing at what they had, at the time, thought of as a stroke of good luck.

Of course their premature celebration hadn't lasted long. Sans, in a move of unprecedented assholery, had dramatically shouted, “run frisk! protect the goods!” at their retreating back and, well, that had been that. The two of them had been hustled into a side room where, one lengthy interrogation and extremely humiliating search later, it had become readily apparent that nothing illegal was going on.

“i _meant_ protect my last twinkies,” Sans had laughed when questioned, though the gleam in his eye when his head had rolled to look at Frisk had undoubtedly been a challenge. _try that again, kiddo,_ that look had seemed to say. _i dare ya._

Frisk hadn't bothered to try again. It was faster by far to just wait for the authorities to give Sans the all clear, even if there was no real reason for him to have been picked up in the first place.

“This is fucking ridiculous!” Frisk growled, their temper temporarily overpowering their manners. “Is this what it's going to be like the whole journey?! We'll take _months_ to get there at this rate!”

“probably.” Sans shrugged as best he could with his hands tied up. “not many monsters out this way. by which i mean none. folks are bound ta get suspicious when one turns up outta the blue like this.”

“Maybe they'd be a lot less suspicious if you didn't look so shady!” Frisk snapped.

If they expected him to snap back, they were sadly mistaken.

Sans laughed. “ouch. ya got a point though. that said, maybe i wouldn't look so shady if you'd stop stormin' ahead like you're tryin' ta get away from me all the time.”

“I _am_ trying to get away from you!”

“and it shows.”

He casually brought his hands around front, the cuffs now dangling off one wrist. In that same hand, he held a razor thin sliver of bone.

Frisk groaned. “Are you _serious_ , Sans?”

“what?” he grinned, switching the makeshift pick to his other hand and setting about the remaining cuff. “y' told me not to break 'em this time.”

“That wasn't an invitation to – _argh_ , you know what? Never mind.”

“heh. anyway, is it any wonder they keep haulin' me in? what would _you_ think if ya saw a skeleton chasin' an angry-lookin' girl through a crowd?”

Frisk's expression darkened. “I'm not a girl.”

“no? well, i hate ta be the one t' break it to ya, sweetheart, but with that rack and those hips, that's exactly what ya look like.” Leaning back, Sans propped his feet up on the desk and interlaced his bony digits behind his head. “ _i_ know y' ain't a girl, but i don't think many humans woulda stopped t' ask themselves what your preferences might be.”

They grumbled ineffectively under their breath, but otherwise made no attempt to argue the point. The problem was, Sans was _right_.

Even Frisk couldn't very well deny that, outwardly at least, they were more 'female' than 'male'. They'd been more androgynous as a child, but alas, puberty took pity on no one. Though still slighter than most women, their hips and chest had unmistakably swollen, and their face had a distinctly girlish look even on their best days. And sure, there were things they could do to negate their feminine qualities somewhat, but they found binding kind of painful and cosmetic surgery seemed extreme.

Besides, they didn't mind the way they looked. That wasn't what their choice in gender was about. What they minded was the roles and expectations and stereotypes society foisted on them _because_ of the way they looked.

So Sans was right. To the humans watching, Frisk was nothing more than a young girl, fleeing from a monster whose appearance happened to be culturally synonymous with death. In their position, Frisk would probably want to intervene too.

They sat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk and crossed their arms in a huff. “I'm not 'angry-looking' either,” they grunted.

Sans snorted. “ _please._ did ya see the way that cop ran outta here? probably thought y' were gonna turn 'im ta stone or somethin'.”

“He'd deserve it. This is bullshit. I _told_ them you were with me, so what's taking so long?”

Sans shrugged. “humans and their procedures. lotsa loops ta jump through with this kinda stuff.” He gestured at the cuffs he'd tossed on the desk – Frisk guessed by 'this kinda stuff' he broadly meant 'the law', even though railway security was scarcely the same thing.

“You sound like you know entirely too much about that.”

“less than you'd think,” he said with a wry chuckle. “i stuck around once, outta curiosity, an' i remember that took a lot of time and paperwork too. bailed after a few hours though. i think 'm still wanted in d.c. ta this day.”

Frisk stared at him, torn between disbelief and grudging amusement. “I'm not even going to ask.”

“probably best,” he agreed easily.

It was a further fifteen minutes before anyone came to see them.

The security guard who'd left them there earlier – a middle-aged man with cropped blonde hair, ruddy cheeks and a bit of a gut – sidled into the room with an anxious cough. Frisk and Sans looked his way immediately and, despite his size compared to the two of them, he seemed to shrink back. Sans gave Frisk a nudge as if to say, 'see, he's scared of ya', but they suspected it had more to do with the vaguely manic grin on _his_ face than with anything they had done.

The security guy cleared his throat. “You folks are free to leave. Sorry for the inconvenience.” He approached Sans with a set of keys in his hands, then faltered when he saw the cuffs discarded on the table. When he chanced a glance at the skeleton, Sans' grin grew wider and he visibly swallowed. He wisely decided against mentioning it. “Er... S-sorry.”

Not half as sorry as he was about to be. Frisk took the opportunity to tear into him, unleashing a good forty-five minutes worth of pent up frustration in a single volley. Sans watched, his eye lights dancing with mirth.

“Sorry? You're _sorry_?! We've missed our train thanks to this debacle!” Frisk fumed. “Half an hour you've kept us waiting here, and for no better reason than that my friend just happens to be a monster! I should report you for racism!”

“N-now, now, there's no need for that, m'am...”

Sans nearly choked on a delighted laugh. Poor sap had unwittingly pushed the 'gender' button.

“ _Don't call me 'm'am'!_ ”

By the time Frisk was done with him, the poor guy had offered to not only reimburse them for accommodation costs – since they'd now have to wait until morning before they could catch another train – but he was also treating them both to a meal at a nearby diner (“Just tell 'em Stevie says to put it on his tab, ma... er, b-buddy.”). Additionally, thanks to Frisk's crash course in gender stereotyping and monster equality, he was considerably better educated than he had been that morning.

Sans applauded them as they left the station, his eye sockets streaming with gleeful tears. “that was the funniest thing i've ever seen, kid! wait till i tell pap!” he gasped, practically bent double. “i thought that putz was gonna wet himself!”

Frisk sniffed and turned their nose up haughtily. “He brought it on himself.” Secretly, though, they were pleased with themselves.

Sans clapped a hand on their shoulder proudly. “way ta hustle, pal.”

“I wasn't _hustling!_ ” Frisk said indignantly. “I was getting us what we were owed.”

He gave them a knowing look, and despite their absolute conviction that they'd done nothing wrong, Frisk felt themselves start to blush. “we were _owed_ a room and food, huh?”

“We were owed an _apology_.”

“whatever you say, pal. forty-five minutes' inconvenience while a man did his job in exchange for upwards of a hundred bucks seems an uneven exchange to me though.” He didn't seem too broken up about that.

“Well, _God_ , make me feel bad about it why don't you...”

Sans just laughed.

 


	15. Chapter 15

The diner wasn't much to look at, really. Chequered floors and cheap Formica tables, and the kind of hard plastic bench seats that stuck to skin like glue and did a number of the tail-bone no matter _how_ carefully you arranged yourself in them. The walls were plastered with myriad posters, some depicting old bands Frisk had never heard of, others advertising sodas and sweets that hadn't been in production since the early sixties.

Retro, some might have called it.

Frisk thought it was tacky.

Still, there was no arguing with that smell – a heady aroma of grease and salt and cooked meat, undercut with the slightest hint of something syrupy sweet. To Frisk, it smelled like childhood; like secret trips to Grillby's with their one-time favourite skeleton in tow. It smelled of burgers with extra ketchup for breakfast, and fries and milkshakes for lunch, and pancakes with syrup when they'd been sent to bed without dessert for whichever childish misdemeanour they happened to have committed that day.

It smelled, in a word, like _nostalgia_.

Despite everything, Frisk could feel their mood improving already.

“Somewhere out there,” they chuckled, eyes roving the laminated menu (comically shaped like a burger, and covered in numerous mysterious stains and fingerprints). “Papyrus is having an aneurysm.”

“heh. my bro never did get the _fast-_ ination with fast food,” Sans agreed. He pulled out his phone. “say, that gives me an idea – say cheese, kid.”

Frisk grinned and held up the burger menu, winking cheekily as the flash went off. They imagined they could hear the taller skeleton's indignant screech already, could all but recite the lecture he would give them had he been on hand to deliver one. Somewhat to their own surprise, given the kind of day they'd just had, they burst into anticipatory giggles.

A lot may have changed over the years – Frisk themselves first and foremost – but Papyrus' antics never got old. If Sans was a reminder of all the bad in their family, then his brother was a reminder of all the good. It was thanks to Papyrus (or rather, what Papyrus represented) that Frisk had any intentions of coming back at all.

Monsters like Papyrus deserved _better_.

Sans smirked, fingers tapping over the screen as he sent the picture to his brother. When he looked up there was a mischievous glint in his eye. “should i add a _saucy_ pun?”

“Depends,” Frisk laughed. “Do you _want_ him to implode?”

 _This is kind of nice,_ they thought. No hostility, no underlying frustration... just bad jokes and good food. Just like old times. It was almost like the two of them were... _friends_ again. Like the years of animosity had just melted away. For the second time in as many days, Frisk felt a twinge of longing for exactly that.

“you're right...” He sniggered. “ _two_ puns.”

 _Poor Papyrus_. Frisk still found themselves smiling though.

“Well?” they asked once he'd finished. “What did you say?”

Sans turned his phone to them with a smug smirk, clearly feeling quite proud of himself.

To: paps | 20:42 | hey bro! look at frisk being a ham(burger)! pretty cheesy, huh? ketchup with ya later!

Frisk bit their bottom lip. “That's three puns.”

Sans' grin stretched to shit-eating proportions. “ _is_ it?”

The text alert went off in his hand and, with what can only be described as a diabolical chuckle, he flipped the device back to himself and read the new message. Frisk, equally excited, automatically leaned in to see the reply.

From: paps | 20:44 | WHILE I AM GLAD TO SEE THE TWO OF YOU GETTING ALONG FOR ONCE,

Frisk shifted a little guiltily at that. They knew their friend regularly fretted over the abysmal state of their relationship with Sans, being that he was inevitably stuck in the middle whenever the two of them clashed. And since Frisk had hit their teenage years, they'd clashed fiercely and _often_.

I REGRET TO INFORM YOU WE ARE NO LONGER BROTHERS. I WANT A DIVORCE. AND I WANT FRIENDSHIP-CUSTODY OF FRISK, SINCE YOU ARE OBVIOUSLY A TERRIBLE INFLUENCE ON THEM.

To: paps | 20:47 | aww, pap! c'mon, we're bone and marrow bro! literally. an' if you get frisk, i'm keepin' the pet rock.

“Hey!” Buoyed, perhaps, by the unusually calm atmosphere between them, Frisk gave Sans' shoulder a playful shove without thinking. “Are you saying your pet rock is more important than me?”

Startled by the contact – and justifiably so; it had been _years_ since Frisk had willingly touched him – Sans took a second longer to reply than normal. When he did, it was with a pleased smile.

“nah. 's less sassy though.”

“I am not sassy!”

“'m afraid i'll have ta disagree with that a _sass_ ment.”

“Oh, you-,”

“Can I take your order?”

Sans and Frisk both looked up in surprise.

The woman who'd interrupted their banter had a sour look on her doughy face, though thankfully not the kind normally reserved specifically for monsters. Far from being fazed by Sans' presence, the waitress gave the impression of someone in a permanent sulk, her dank hair and sallow skin adding to the overall aura of perpetual misery.

Frisk wiped the goofy grin off their face and politely asked for a glass of water and the 'Saver Special', adding – almost shamefully, now that Sans had pointed out the injustice – that it was to be put on Stevie's tab.

The woman – 'Martha', read her name tag, which was clipped to her grubby apron at a jaunty angle – didn't seem especially perturbed by them ordering food on Stevie's tab. Frisk wondered if that meant it was a regular occurrence, or if Martha just wasn't that easily perturbed. They suspected the latter.

Sans ended up ordering the 'Saver Special' too – after a wry glance at Frisk – with an extra bottle of ketchup for drinking. Despite her less than welcoming disposition, he smiled at the waitress charmingly, making jokes and cracking puns relentlessly until – _somehow_ – she left them with a tentative smile on her face.

They ended up with free milkshakes.

“ _How_?” Frisk gaped, once Martha had left them with their meals and complimentary 'shakes. This was the second time, by Frisk's count, that Sans had charmed his way into the good graces of an otherwise unreceptive human. They were starting to wonder if he was secretly using some kind of hypnotising magic.

Sans winked over his burger. “'m not just a pretty face, kiddo. i'm also charmin', witty-,”

“Modest?” Frisk raised their eyebrows.

“absolutely.” He pointedly took a sip of his milkshake. “the whole package.”

“Well... _some_ of it, at least,” Frisk drawled with a deliberate smirk.

“hey now, let's not bring height into this.” They knew what was coming even before he said it. Not one to disappoint, Sans tilted his head at their pre-emptive groan, grinning widely. “that's _low_ , pal.”

“Sorry – I didn't meant to get _short_ with you.”

“'s fine, i forgive ya. in situations like these, i like to be the _bigger_ person.”

Frisk snorted, choking on a mouthful of fries. They took a sip of milkshake to wash it down, then levelled a mock glare at Sans. It felt nice that, for once, they were just pretending to be annoyed at him.

“ _That_ ,” they coughed, “was _awful_.”

* * *

 

“nu-uh. i don't believe ya!” Sans was hunched over on his side of the booth, skull flush with the table as he wheezed fitfully around his laughter. “there's no _way_ that's true!”

Frisk was laughing too, an embarrassed red tint to their cheeks. “It absolutely is, I swear! It was like something out of one of those cheesy anime things Alphys likes. I just – I-I panicked and-,” they burst out laughing again, “Poor MK. I think his crush died pretty fast after that.”

Sans turned his head, glancing up at them and grinning stupidly. He wasn't sure how the conversation had turned from height jokes to an epic retelling of their most embarrassing memories, but he was _very_ glad it had. He'd thought his own tale unbeatable on the humiliation scale – a memory form his teenage years, whereupon his bro had superglued a bright red clown wig to his skull while he was asleep (payback for switching his Bishie Cream with mayonnaise). The wig would have been bad enough, but it had been picture day at school too, and he hadn't been able to remove it before hand. He'd have simply skipped out, but he'd already been under scrutiny by the school board for doing exactly that.

Frisk hadn't believed _him_ either; he'd told them to ask Pap, who, he was certain, still had multiple copies of the offending photograph stashed somewhere.

Still, after hearing _their_ story, Sans had little choice but to admit defeat.

“jeez. you win, pal.” He stood and gave an exaggerated bow. “the title of embarrassment heavy weight champion is all yours.”

Frisk, still flushed with remembered shame, pumped their skinny biceps playfully. “Damn right.”

Sans retook his seat, chuckling. “i imagine he didn't ask a second time?” Frisk snorted, which more than adequately answered _that_ question. “shame. do ya wish he had?”

“Nah.” They smiled wryly. “After a disaster like that, things could only ever have been awkward between us. Besides, MK was nice and all, but I already had a crush on...” They abruptly cut themselves off, immediately realising they'd said too much. “uh... someone else,” they finished lamely.

“oh?” Sans leaned forward on his elbows, grinning conspiratorially. “do tell.”

Their cheeks, which had been returning to their usual colour, flared anew. “Nope.”

Sans was far from dissuaded.

“was it paps?” he asked, waggling his non-eyebrows. “it was paps wasn't it? i _knew_ there was a reason ya spent all that time hangin' around him back then.”

It was part of the reason he and the kid had fought so much during their teen years – for a time, it had seemed like they were just always in the same room, and Frisk's sudden surge in hormones coupled with whatever beef they'd had with him since childhood hadn't made for a great combination. At the time, Sans hadn't understood why they seemed so determined to seek him out when all they ever did was argue. It made a lot more sense in the context of them having a crush on his bro.

“Shut up!” Frisk groaned, covering their face with their hands. “I did _not_ have a crush on Papyrus.”

“you totally did! look at ya gettin' all hot under the collar,” Sans teased, poking at their warm cheek through their splayed fingers. “hey, i get it, pal – paps _is_ pretty damn cool. can't say i blame ya.”

“Ugh!” Frisk pushed his hand away. “I'm telling you I didn't.”

Sans said nothing, letting his facial expression speak for itself.

“I _didn't_!” they insisted.

“huh.” So much for that theory then. “alright, so who was it? _me_?” Sans joked, knowing full well that Frisk was as likely to take up a professional career in assassination as they were to have ever had a crush on _him_.

Except as soon as the words left his mouth, Frisk flinched as though he'd reached across the table and slapped them. Their face, already rosy, turned a particular hue of red that Sans had never before seen on a human, and their eyes hardened defiantly even as they turned their gaze away to the side.

Sans sat back, suddenly unsure.

“it... it _wasn't_ me... was it, kid?” he asked skeptically.

Frisk shrugged. They still wouldn't look at him.

“huh.” For once, Sans honestly didn't know what to say. “well... i, uh... i didn't expect that.”

“Does it bother you?” they asked at last, eyes still pinned to a poster halfway across the room. There was a hard edge to the question, an undercurrent of defensiveness – Sans knew, with sudden clarity, that he would have to tread very, _very_ carefully here.

“nah. 'm not _bothered_ ,” he immediately assured them, because he _wasn't_ and, for his own sake, he didn't want them thinking otherwise. “maybe... confused, i guess? we spent most of the last ten years buttin' heads – that doesn't sound very crush-like ta me is all.”

“It's complicated,” Frisk muttered.

That was, Sans thought, the very least that could be said about it. Still treading carefully, he cautiously agreed. “yep.”

Awkward silence.

“Look,” Frisk sighed after a full minute spent avoiding his gaze, “it's not like I had any control over it. I didn't just _decide_ to have a crush on you one morning.”

“i know. 'm not sayin' that kid.” Sans held up his hands in a placating gesture. “'s just... kinda outta the blue is all. it's not a problem or anythin', 'm just... uh, _processing_.”

Far from being reassured, Frisk looked – if anything – _more_ embarrassed. “Fine. Whatever. Can we just talk about something else please?”

“sure.”

Another less than comfortable silence rushed in to meet them.

After a few minutes a couple of teenagers came into the diner, shattering the quiet with their oblivious, carefree laughter. The sudden noise did nothing to soften the tense atmosphere between Sans and his human charge, and it was with a frown that the skeleton abruptly realised whatever camaraderie they had since rebuilt was now gone again.

He felt the loss more acutely than he might have guessed.

Figuring there was probably nothing he could do that wouldn't make the situation worse, Sans gave the equivalent of a mental shrug and suddenly grinned.

“so... do ya still wanna jump my bones or what?”

Predictably, Frisk's carefully indifferent expression soured. “Ugh.”

They got up with a disgusted huff, making their way pointedly toward the exit.

Cackling, Sans called after them, “'m not hearing a no!”

Frisk tossed him an inelegant gesture over their shoulder before stepping into the street.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I rather enjoy this chapter. It came out better than I was expecting.
> 
> Also, more beautiful fanart by the lovely Curiouser+Yet+Curiouser - please do go check it out, it's well worth seeing!
> 
> <https://sorceresszee.tumblr.com/image/171402961122>


	16. Chapter 16

“how was your flight?”

“HORRIBLE. DID YOU KNOW, UNDYNE'S VOMIT SMEELS LIKE FERMENTED FISH GUTS?”

Sans bit back a laugh. “you know what that smells like?”

“I DO NOW.”

“I _said_ I was sorry,” Undyne grumbled, still looking a little green around the gills. “It crept up on me! What was I supposed to do?”

“NOT THROWING UP ON MY FAVOURITE TIE WOULD HAVE BEEN A GOOD START.”

“Maybe if your tie wasn't toxic orange...”

“IT IS NOT MY TIE'S FAULT YOU'RE AFRAID OF HEIGHTS!”

“Wha- I wasn't _afraid_! You take that back, nerd!”

Knowing from unfortunate experience that a full-blown argument between the two could go on for quite some time, Sans smoothly stepped in. “as amusing as all this is, don't we have bigger problems right now?”

Both Undyne and Papyrus looked briefly ashamed of themselves.

“R-right.” Undyne coughed. “Well, I'm sure Pap already filled you in on the important bits – Nak was a weasel and now he's dust, and Javier wants your head mounted to a wall even if he has to follow you to the ends of the earth to do it.” She eyed him speculatively. “You got any idea how that came about, bone boy?”

Sans was pretty sure he'd never even met this 'Javier' before, much less done anything to offend the man. “nope.”

Undyne crossed her well-muscled arms over her chest. “Figures.”

“hey, i can't be expected ta keep track of _everyone_ i've pissed off in my life.” God knew he couldn't even keep track of everyone he pissed off in a _day_. “so what happens now? does the boss want us ta take care of him or what?”

“NO,” said Papyrus. “THIS IS AN AVERY WE'RE DEALING WITH – A ROGUE ONE, TRUE, BUT AN AVERY NONETHELESS. WE CANNOT BE SEEN AS THE INSTIGATORS.”

“uh, bro? i think it's been well established by this point that _he_ started all this.”

“TRUE, BUT WE STILL CAN'T RISK KILLING HIM UNTIL HE HAS LEFT US NO OTHER CHOICE. THERE CAN BE NO ROOM FOR ANY TO DOUBT THAT IT WAS AN ACT OF SELF-DEFENSIVE. OTHERWISE-,”

“otherwise we'll have a full scale war on our hands,” Sans finished bitterly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “i gotcha.”

This couldn't be happening at a worse time. Had the situation been anything other than what it was, playing the waiting game wouldn't have been nearly as daunting. Hell, they could even have worked it to their advantage. It wouldn't take much to lure Javier in – a few words in the right ears, some surreptitious cash flashing...

Sans knew he could reel the kid in like a fish on a line.

Unfortunately a play like that came with risks, and while Sans would willingly – eagerly even – put himself in danger, he was decidedly less enthused about putting Frisk in the crosshairs. He couldn't just leave either, much as he knew they'd like him to – not when he didn't know where, exactly, Avery was. Just because Frisk wasn't the primary target didn't mean Javier wouldn't take a shot at the Dreemurr heir should an opportunity present itself.

“This sucks,” Undyne grumbled. “The guy responsible for killin' a whole mess of our people is out there, plottin' to murder Sans, and ol' Fluffybuns expects us ta just sit here with our thumbs up our-,”

“UNDYNE!”

“What?! It's true!”

“BE THAT AS IT MAY,” said Papyrus, his voice thick with disapproval. “YOUR POINT CAN BE AS EASILY MADE _WITHOUT_ THE VULGARITY.”

“Whatever.” Undyne turned to Sans. “So what's the plan, dork? How'd ya wanna do this thing?”

Sans let out a sigh. “how else? back in ebott with frisk safely outta the way and the full strength of the dreemurrs at our backs.”

“And plan B?”

The skeleton shrugged. “guess 'm jus' gonna have to keep followin' frisk until the situation changes.”

“Which means me and Paps are stuck on lookout duty until then. _Great,_ ” Undyne grimaced.

Papyrus hummed thoughtfully. “CAN FRISK NOT BE PERSUADED TO RETURN HOME? AT LEAST UNTIL THIS ALL BLOWS OVER?”

Sans was shaking his head before his brother even finished. “doubt it. they're pretty set on this lawyer business. i could explain the circumstances, but knowing them all that'll do is piss them off.”

Papyrus seemed surprised. “I DISAGREE, BROTHER. GIVEN YOUR NEW LEVEL OF FRIENDSHIP, I THINK FRISK WOULD BE AT LEAST WILLING TO _LISTEN_.”

A cold sweat broke out on Sans' forehead. He hadn't told his brother and Undyne about Frisk's unexpected confession in the diner, partly because the whole thing was almost as embarrassing for him as it had been for the kid, but mostly because he wasn't a complete asshole. Bad enough _he_ knew about it – he wasn't about to humiliate Frisk further by blabbing about it to everyone they both collectively knew. And besides, it was probably safe to assume that whatever misguided feelings they'd once held for him were effectively dead.

Despite these facts, however, Sans couldn't help the momentary thrill of panic that went through him at Papyrus' words. Nor was he able to prevent the immediate denial that tumbled through his teeth.

“there's no 'new level of friendship', bro!”

To his credit, he did realise how suspicious that sounded practically the second he said it. To his discredit, his attempt to remedy the situation was to add an even more suspect, “we're the same as always,” in a tone so casual it was likely obvious to even Papyrus that it was forced.

Fortunately, while Sans had little doubt he _had_ picked up on it, Papyrus was a cool enough guy not to mention the odd outburst, moving on without so much as a raised eyebrow. “OH? WELL AT THE VERY LEAST, THE FACT THAT THE TWO OF YOU ARE GETTING ALONG WELL ENOUGH TO BOMBARD ME WITH INSIPID PUNS TOGETHER SUGGESTS YOUR TALK WENT WELL, YES?”

“uh...” Sans rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “define _well_... and _talk,_ while you're at it...”

It wasn't that Sans had _forgotten_ he was supposed to air his and Frisk's history on this trip – more, it was that he simply hadn't been able to find an opening. Since intercepting them, things between the skeleton and his young charge had consistently been either too tense or too relaxed. Through a combination of uncharacteristic sentimentality and sheer selfishness, Sans had found himself unwilling to ruin the rare moments of camaraderie that occasionally cropped up between them. Equally, however, approaching the topic while Frisk was mad was the surest way to drive them even further away, which was the exact opposite of what he was trying to do in the first place.

“YOU HAVEN'T SPOKEN WITH THEM YET?” Papyrus asked, incredulous. “WHY ON EARTH NOT?”

Undyne was equally unimpressed. “Seriously, dude? What the hell have you been _doin'_ all this time?”

Sans scowled. “hey, in my defence, it's only been two days. an' i spent a good chunk of one of 'em in handcuffs so you two could catch up.”

“We salute your sacrifice,” Undyne sneered.

“you wanna say that again, fish for brains?” Sans snapped.

It was, he instantly knew, the wrong response to make – as ever, the best way to deal with Undyne's incendiary one-liners was to ignore them. She rarely meant anything by them anyway, it was just her natural fire and sarcasm coming to the fore.

But Sans' nerves were raw from a long day of travel, and if he was being honest, the crush thing had thrown him off more than he was letting on. He was in no mood to put up with her crap, despite having just told off his brother for doing the same.

“What, you deaf as well as stupid?”

“careful, undies,” he growled. “'m in a really bad mood.”

“Ooh, scary!”

“ALRIGHT, THAT'S ENOUGH.” Papyrus sounded almost exasperated, his admonishment cutting through the brewing fight like a knife. “HONESTLY, IT'S LIKE WORKING WITH CHILDREN!”

Undyne at least had the grace to look ashamed. Sans on the other hand managed only a mildly repentant grimace.

“sorry, bro.”

“Yeah, what he said.”

Papyrus sniffed. “MMM. IN ANY CASE, THE FACT REMAINS – WHATEVER YOUR EXCUSES, SANS, YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO BROACH THE SUBJECT SOONER OR LATER. IF I WERE YOU, I WOULD CHOOSE SOONER.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10 points to anyone who spots the (completely unintentional) Sonic the Hedgehog reference.


	17. Chapter 17

When Frisk awoke, early the next morning, the humiliation of what had transpired the previous evening woke with them. They hadn't even gotten out of bed, had barely even opened their eyes, and already their cheeks were on fire, their stomach a twist of embarrassed knots that made them feel sick.

They rolled over in bed, burying their face in the pillow, and let out a loud, low groan. Sans was going to be _unbearable_ now that he knew their dirty little secret, of that Frisk was certain. _Why_ had they told him? Why hadn't they just let him believe they'd been crushing on Papyrus?

“Because he would have known I was lying,” they muttered, answering their own question. “He _always_ knows.”

Briefly, they wondered if they could get ready fast enough to ditch him. They might have done it too, if not for the fact that the thought was followed almost immediately by a knock at the door.

There was little doubt in their mind that it was Sans.

“Damn skeleton and his uncanny timing,” Frisk grumbled, rolling out of bed. “Is he a mind-reader or something?"

They glanced at their reflection in the blank television screen as they passed, praying the colour in their face wasn't as noticeable as it felt, and then arranged their features into an irritated frown before throwing open the door. The waspish greeting they'd had prepared died on their tongue as they took in the sight of the skeleton standing on their doorstep, a bag from McDonald's clutched in one hand and a drinks tray in the other. He looked the same as always – completely and utterly at ease, posture casual, a smile on his skull that was no less lazy because of it's permanence. If he thought anything of their confession, it certainly didn't show.

Frisk started to relax. Maybe he would just pretend it had never happened.

“mornin' sweetheart,” he winked, stepping past them. They watched as he dumped the bag and drinks on the sideboard and then proceeded to flop onto the unmade bed, making himself comfortable. “what's the matter, friskers? aren't ya happy ta see me? i'm _crushed_.”

Or maybe he'd make dumb puns about it all day.

Frisk turned away as a fresh flush overtook their face, making a beeline for the food so they'd have an excuse to keep their back to him.

“Fuck off,” they snapped, snatching a hash brown from the depth of the bag. “Shouldn't you be climbing in my window or something like a _real_ stalker?”

They could _hear_ his grin widen at that. “you'd like that, wouldn't you?”

For a moment, Frisk was completely insensate with rage. “Get. Out.”

“nah. what kind of stalker would i be then?”

In a burst of uncharacteristic aggression, Frisk spat back, “You're about to be a _dead_ one!”

“violent,” Sans chuckled, sitting up and flicking a hand at the drinks cups. One took on a blue outline and began to float over to the skeleton's waiting grasp. “there's hope for you yet, kiddo.”

* * *

The rest of the morning followed more or less the same pattern – Sans took great delight in peppering Frisk with stupid jokes about their crush, while Frisk tried (and failed) to maintain a facade of calm they patently didn't feel. He knew what he was doing was counterproductive - all he was doing was pissing them off - but he couldn't really help it.

He was nervous, and when Sans Aster got nervous his automatic response was to fall back on humour.

Besides, watching Frisk get all flustered over his ribbing was kind of satisfying, in the same way that watching Papyrus freak out after a good pun was satisfying. Catharsis and affection, all in one.

Still, by the time they were ready to catch the train, the silent treatment was in full effect – not that that stopped, or even really fazed him, but Papyrus' words kept repeating themselves in his mind, a bleak reminder that he couldn't stall forever.

“ _YOU MUST BROACH THE SUBJECT SOONER OR LATER, BROTHER. IF I WERE YOU, I'D CHOOSE SOONER._ ”

And of course, Paps was right. Frisk wasn't going to like what he had to say, but it had to be said regardless.

With this in mind, Sans waited until they were settled on the train and Frisk had relatively few options for escape before – with a heavy and reluctant sigh – he turned to them to begin.

Frisk beat him to the punch. “Skeleton, I am warning you – _enough_.”

Sans blinked. “i wasn't-,”

“Like hell you weren't,” they scowled, arms crossed. “Haven't you exhausted your supply of second-rate crush-themed jokes by now?”

“kid, you underestimate me,” he chuckled. “but i really wasn't this time.”

Frisk continued to eye him skeptically. “Fine then. What do you want?”

The urge to tell another joke – just one more – rose in Sans like a tide. It was the perfect opportunity, an opening practically _begging_ to be taken, and the reaction, he knew, would be nothing short of spectacular.

But equally, he knew that if he did, he could kiss goodbye to any chance they had of a level-headed conversation afterwards.

With a pang of regret, Sans swallowed back the pun and cleared his throat.

“kid, we need to talk about-,”

A sudden movement towards the front of the train caught Sans' attention at the last second and, scalp prickling, he immediately cut himself off. Two guys – plain-looking and dressed in clothes nondescript past the point of suspicion – had entered their carriage. At first glance, they seemed to be looking for some seats – and hey, the train was pretty crowded, so the ruse might even have worked, if not for two things.

  1. Their gazes lingered on each face slightly too long to be completely casual.

  2. Sans' long ingrained sixth sense for danger was going haywire.




Careful to keep his movements calm and measured, Sans grabbed Frisk's hand and slowly got to his feet.

“Sans, what-,”

“kid,” he said lowly, keeping his head angled so that should the thugs – who were still quite a ways down the carriage – raise their heads, all they'd see was his hat. “i need ya ta listen very carefully. grab your stuff and walk as naturally as you can to the end of the train. got it?”

Frisk was, by now, picking up on his mood and looked appropriately unsettled. They stood with an expression half-confused and half-anxious, hand still in his, and slid into the aisle in front of him, turning only to grab their backpack from the rack.

“Why?” they whispered, even as Sans began to shepherd them towards the next carriage.

“trust me,” Sans replied, conscious of the men at his back, the narrowness of the train, and the lack of escape options – barring, of course, his teleportation, which sadly didn't work so well inside moving vehicles. It was hard enough trying to concentrate his magic on a safe destination long enough to make the jump at all, without that destination changing relative to his own position at a rate of several miles every minute.

No, under these circumstances teleporting was an absolute last resort. He wouldn't risk it until there was no other option.

“faster, pal,” he murmured. Frisk increased their pace accordingly.

They almost made it too. The door to the next carriage was right in front of them – Frisk's hand was literally on the button to open it – when a shout rang out from behind.

“Sir! I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to wait a minute,” called one of the guys, tone convincingly light and apologetic. His tune would change all took quickly, Sans knew, the moment he saw who he was dealing with.

Knowing there was no way to avoid a confrontation now that they'd been spotted, Sans released Frisk's hand and pushed them urgently towards the door.

“ _run_.”

Frisk did so without question, for which Sans was grateful. When they were safely on their way, he tilted his head back, allowing the two men to see part of his skeletal face. They had already drawn their weapons the moment Frisk started to flee, but seeing his unmistakably inhuman visage had them aiming with purpose.

Sans smirked, turning fully to face his opponents.

“'fraid 'm gonna have ta respectfully decline.”

* * *

“I WILL HAVE ONE OF YOUR RING SHAPED SANDWICHES, HUMAN.”

The human manning the bagel shop visibly flinched. Whether the man's reaction was due to Papyrus' physical appearance – skeleton monsters, he had long since discovered, made many humans _extra_ uncomfortable for some reason – or the prodigious volume in which he made his request was anyone's guess.

“OH, AND A BOTTLE OF WATER,” he added, drawing a crisp note from his wallet. “THANK YOU.”

The man – 'Bryan' his name tag proclaimed – made a nervous sound in the back of his throat before scurrying to fill Papyrus' order, throwing anxious glances over the counter all the while. It was as good a response as the skeleton had expected honestly, and certainly better than the lady at the ticket counter, who'd screamed and scattered her pot of pens all over the floor in her bid to escape his imposing visage. She'd been quite apologetic when Papyrus assisted her in regathering the runaway stationary, and Papyrus – being the suave and cool skeleton he was – had kindly ignored her faux pas.

It was, he had learned, much easier to simply wait for the humans' hysteria to fade away on it's own.

“H-here,” Bryan said tremulously, holding a paper bag and bottle over the counter. “And your ch-change, sir.”

“YOU MAY KEEP IT, HUMAN BRYAN.” And so saying, Papyrus turned to make the trek back across the concourse of the train station.

“Uh... th-thanks!” Bryan called after his retreating back.

Papyrus smiled sadly – there was no surer way to a human's heart than through money. Yet another thing he had learned over the years.

Undyne was sitting in almost the exact same position as when he'd left – arms crossed, legs spread wide, and slouched with what could only be described as a growl on her face. She had taken a whole bench to herself, mostly by virtue of the fact that her expression was so fierce, none save Papyrus dared sit beside her. She'd been in a mood most foul all morning, and the short time they'd spent apart didn't appear to have sweetened her any.

“This is _bullshit_!” she snapped as Papyrus took up his previously vacated perch beside her. “What kind of sorry assignment _is_ this?! We should be out there _doin'_ somethin', not sittin' here waitin' on a train that's already _half an hour late_ so we can play long-distance babysitter!”

Papyrus sighed. “I DO NOT LIKE IT ANY MORE THAN YOU, UNDYNE. BUT ORDERS ARE ORDERS.”

The plan had been for the two of them to follow Sans and Frisk at a given distance – not so close that they might run into Frisk by accident, but not so far away that they couldn't be there in under five minutes if things went wrong. Unfortunately, that plan had already been thrown into complete disarray by a dog running around too close to the railway tracks further down the line. The train driver, an avid lover of dogs himself apparently, had spotted the canine and performed an emergency stop, calling it in. Service had as yet still not resumed, leaving Papyrus with the peculiar mental image of several maintenance workers chasing the creature back and forth over the rails even now.

“Yeah, well these ones are _stupid_ ,” Undyne grumbled. “At this rate, those two will be half way to Kansas before we even get outta this station.”

Papyrus unwrapped his bagel and took a generous bite in lieu of an answer. She wasn't wrong, but admitting as much would only serve to further sour her mood. Papyrus, for his part, saw no real cause for alarm – certainly Sans could be vexing at times, but he was also strong and smart and dependable when the need arose. There was no doubt in Papyrus' mind that his brother could handle any number of atrocities without the need for their help.

Yet another thing he neglected to point out to Undyne. If playing the part of 'baby sitter' chaffed, there was no telling how she'd take the news that their presence was almost entirely superfluous.

“LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE,” said Papyrus. “AT LEAST _WE'RE_ NOT THE ONES BEING FORCED TO LISTEN TO SANS' STUPID JOKES.”

* * *

 

Frisk would _kill_ for Sans to miraculously appear at their side and tell them one of his stupid jokes right now.

Okay, maybe not _kill –_ they were still a pacifist after all, irrespective of any threats they might have made in anger that morning. All the same, they wished he would hurry up already. They'd been standing outside the door to the train driver's cabin for almost five minutes, and between the increasing worry that maybe he wasn't _going_ to join them, ever, and the curiously intense stare of a young businessman seated two rows back... Well, they were beginning to feel very insecure indeed.

 _What if Sans is already dead?_ they fretted, deliberately letting their eyes slide to the window in the door to their right. _What if those men are making their way up the train right now, looking for me?_

But no, that was ridiculous. This was _Sans_ they were talking about – the man who had single-handedly wiped out four heavily armed thugs in a single night. If anything, they should be worried that the bonehead had just murdered two more men in front of a carriage full of witnesses. They hadn't heard any gunshots, after all, and Frisk knew better than most that Sans could kill as silently as he could travel...

But what if the men had used silencers? Frisk could easily have missed the suppressed shots as they were running, especially with the amount of whispering that had followed their progress. And Sans was... _delicate_. They remembered all too clearly Papyrus telling them off as a kid, reminding them not to throw themselves at the elder skelebro quite so forcefully because – unlike his very great, very durable self – Sans was easy to hurt if they overdid it...

Sans had always argued in their favour, of course. _“'s fine, pap. 'm not_ that _fragile.”_ And he'd lift them on his shoulders to prove it, despite Papyrus' protests. _“if i can handle our line of work, i can definitely handle this little squirt.”_

Frisk shook their head, dislodging the bittersweet memories from their mind. They had once counted those times among the happiest of their childhood... Hell, in many ways they still did, even if the recollections had a certain pall over them now that they new what 'our line of work' actually was.

Anyway, none of that mattered right now. All that mattered was that Sans was _alive_ , and they were going to get off this train together unscathed, just as soon as he hurried his bony behind up with whatever it was he was doing (hopefully not killing anyone).

They were just about at the ten minute mark when the businessman with the intense stare got to his feet. He was, on the face of it, an unremarkable young man. His hair was dusty brown, collar length, and messy in a very deliberate sort of way, and the suit he wore clung flatteringly to a slim frame that was nonetheless hard with muscle. Frisk could imagine he was the kind of man who worked out on his lunch breaks – the kind of man who took a business-minded approach to all aspects of his life, for whom time management was not merely a tool of the trade but a way of life.

The exact kind of man, in other words, that you would _expect_ to be on a long-distance train – a go-getter on his way to an important conference or some such. As they said, unremarkable. Even the fact that he was staring at them so attentively wasn't that unusual – their flight down the train had drawn considerable attention, and he was far from being the only passenger giving them a good eyeballing.

Still... two things about the man were bothering Frisk.

The first was his eyes – dark green and intelligent, there was something uncanny about them that they couldn't quite put their finger on. They... they felt like they _recognised_ them somehow. And not in a good way.

Second, he had a very pronounced shadow of stubble on his jaw. Which was fine, obviously, except that it wasn't quite tidy enough to have been deliberate, suggesting that he was more of a clean-shaven type and simply hadn't had time to shave before rushing out the door this morning...

An incongruity that just didn't seem to fit the character he otherwise exuded.

Admittedly, Frisk's analysis was meagre and baseless – it was impossible to know a person just by glancing at the surface, Frisk knew that better than anyone. And so despite their general unease, they'd opted to just ignore him, a decision they tried stick to even as he closed the distance between them.

When he drew close, Frisk shuffled nervously, pressing themselves closer to the cabin door as they studiously avoided eye contact. _He just wants to use the toilet,_ they told themselves. _Just stay out of his way and let him get on with his business and everything will be fine._

But unfortunately the man made no attempt to turn away and enter the small toilet cubicle on Frisk's left. Instead he stopped right in front of them, his powerful presence dwarfing them in just about every respect and making their stomach sink to somewhere in the vicinity of their toes. Their hands curled anxiously around the straps of their backpack before, with a very polite, very _forced_ smile, they made themselves meet his gaze.

“Can I help you?” they asked, still holding out hope that maybe he just wanted to check they were okay.

Their hopes were crushed a moment later when, with a smirk that could only be described as cruel, the man replied, “Maybe you can, Miss Dreemurr. Maybe you can.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting to the exciting stuff now guys! Hold on to your hats!
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Curiouser+Yet+Curiouser, who is honestly too good to me with all the beautiful fan art they've made for this story, and who I feel deserves some love and recognition for their talent. Go check out these additional wonderful pictures they've drawn and show them how great they are!
> 
>  
> 
> [https://sorceresszee.tumblr.com/post/171855945617/frisk-at-the-café-enjoying-their-milkshake-and](https://sorceresszee.tumblr.com/post/171855945617/frisk-at-the-caf%C3%A9-enjoying-their-milkshake-)
> 
>  
> 
> <https://sorceresszee.tumblr.com/post/171957336522/yet-again-i-just-had-to-art-thou-fabulous-story>


	18. Chapter 18

Sans examined the sorry sight before him with a frown. The two men were out cold, having been knocked clean out by a couple of bones he'd summoned on the sly. It had been a shockingly simple task to keep their pair of them talking while he did so – confident in their own victory, the idiots had sung like canaries...

Right up until Sans decided he'd heard enough and had simultaneously smacked them both on the head with enough force to drop the fairly large duo like a sack of potatoes. And, bonus points, the rest of the passengers – all gaping at the scene with varying degrees of shock and confusion – didn't seem to know what to make of the exchange. Which meant it wasn't too late to work the situation to his advantage.

“sorry 'bout that folks. monster-haters.” He shrugged. “what ya gonna do?”

There were a few mutters of agreement, some distinctly uncomfortable side glances... Not exactly a rousing show of support, but at least the distinct undercurrent of fear had been replaced by a wary kind of understanding. Whatever their personal opinions on monsters, no one was going to be asking any questions after seeing two beefy aggressors get dropped by a skeleton half their size.

“anyway, uh... probably best 'm not around when they wake up. wouldn't want there ta be any more... unpleasantness.” And with that, he turned on his heel and started after Frisk at a studiously sedate pace. The message was subtle, but effective – a quiet reassurance that no, the men weren't dead (a stroke of good luck on their part; Sans didn't like leaving loose ends like this, but he knew better than to tie them off in full view of fifty plus witnesses) and yes, he was dangerous and should be given a wide berth.

In any case, a bunch of gawking humans was the least of his problems – he and Frisk needed to get the hell off this train, and preferably out of Utah altogether. After that he'd need to call Pap and Undyne so they could regroup, because after what those two meat heads had just told him, playing the waiting game was _not_ going to cut it.

“philip avery, huh?” he muttered, maintaining his easy gait. The name didn't ring a bell, but then he supposed it wouldn't – it's not like he ever stopped to ask his victims names. Besides, he'd apparently killed the guy over a _decade_ ago; Sans couldn't even remember the name of the barista who'd made his coffee that morning.

Still, it certainly explained a few things...

He didn't have much time to ponder the new information however, as a familiar shout from somewhere up ahead broke his concentration. Head snapping up in an instant, his eyes darted in the direction it had come from. Still a good carriage and a half from the front, Sans could nonetheless see that there was a crowd – never a good thing in his experience.

“frisk?” he called, speeding up.

“S-Sans!” they cried back – as he'd feared, their voice emanated from somewhere within the knot of humanity. As he got closer, he was able to discern the unmistakable sounds of a struggle. “Get off me! _Help!_ ”

Mercilessly shoving past the onlookers, the scene finally came into view. Frisk, twisting and turning like a snake, pulling fruitlessly against the unshakable grip of some bozo in a grey power suit. Around them passengers were staring and whispering, some yelling in the direction of the driver's cabin for help and others – the 'heroes' – edging closer and trying to reason with the madman.

Sans felt his left eye burn angrily at the sight. It was all he could do not to impale the man where he stood.

His voice, when he found it, was deceptively steady and friendly. “hey buddy – think my pal wants ya ta let go now.”

The guy jolted, spinning in place to face Sans and inadvertently dragging Frisk with him. The startled expression on his stubbled face was quickly replaced by a haughty sneer, but that wasn't what caught Sans' attention. It was his eyes – forest green and sharper than the edge of a knife.

Abruptly, it all came rushing back.

A dingy house on the outskirts of Ebott – four men, two upstairs, two down, and Frisk, tied up and beaten bloody and so frightened it tore at Sans' soul to look at them. One of the men he'd killed that night had had those same piercing eyes; Sans had cut their owner's throat and watched the life drain out of them even as his buddies tried to run.

Now it all made sense. Sans had clearly – unwittingly – killed Philip Avery while rescuing Frisk all those years ago, and now his brother was out for revenge. Oddly enough, Sans felt he could relate to the motive, even if he took issue with the execution (pun entirely intended).

“ _You,_ ” Javier drawled, cold hatred etched in every line of his angular face.

“me,” Sans agreed coolly. “javier avery, 'm guessin'?”

“So you've heard of me,” he said, as though that were only to be expected. The arrogance in that one statement was enough to make Sans want to laugh.

His gaze, however, flicked briefly to Frisk, still struggling fiercely in Javier's steely grip, and he deliberately swallowed back a whole slew of sarcastic retorts. “mighta heard the name bandied about a few times, yeah.”

Javier's eyes narrowed. “Where is Ke- … I mean my men?”

Sans hummed thoughtfully. _how interesting._

It would appear that the two guys he'd knocked in his and Frisk's carriage weren't just a couple of nameless goons to the young Avery. At the very least the kid knew their names, and the fact that he'd bothered to ask after them indicated a certaindegree of concern.

Sans smirked – he could _use_ that.

“how should i know?”

“They're dead then?” Javier pressed flatly.

Sans had to hand it to the guy, his poker face was damn impressive. Based on his face alone, no one – not even Sans – would ever guess he felt anything but mild annoyance at the loss. Too bad he gave the game away in nearly a million other ways – the hand not holding Frisk had unconsciously tightened into a fist, and the muscles in his neck were tense as he no doubt grit his teeth. Sans did not miss the slight tremor that ran through his limbs either, though he tried to play it off by shifting his weight to his other foot.

“i dunno.” Slowly, carefully, Sans put his own hands in his pockets. Once out of sight, he clicked the fingers of his left hand and a bone the size of a human forearm materialised behind Javier's head. He immediately wreathed it in blue to keep it afloat, closing his left eye in a wink to hide the telltale flare of magic in his socket as he did so. “ _dead_ certain i got no idea what you're talkin' about.”

Javier's nostrils flared. “Are you _mocking_ me skeleton?”

Sans grinned. “dunno. are you _lettin'_ yourself be mocked, human?”

If he'd hoped to goad Javier into an attack, Sans was left quite disappointed – his self-control, as it turned out, was pretty good too. Pity. Looked like he was going to have to do this the hard way.

“You think you're so clever,” Javier sneered. “Sans the Skeleton – the untouchable right hand man of Don Asgore Dreemurr himself.”

“heh. flattery will get ya _everywhere,_ pal.”

Again Sans' gaze twitched to Frisk – by now they had noticed the bone floating behind Javier's back and had consequently stopped trying to get away, instead watching the proceedings with quiet intent. When their eyes met, Sans tilted his head ever so slightly to the right – a wordless communication that, thankfully, they appeared to have little trouble understanding. They gave him a short, determined nod and, satisfied, Sans returned his full attention to Javier, who seemed not to have noticed the exchange.

“You really are every bit as annoying as you're fabled to be.”

“thanks. i try.” And, seeing no cause for further delay, that's when he struck. “ _now_ frisk!”

What happened next was, Sans thought, every bit as surprising to him as it was to Javier.

The first phase of the plan went smoothly enough – the bone connected with Javier's skull with a resounding _thunk,_ and although he hadn't quite been able to accomplish the level of force he was going for, it did have more or less the desired effect. Javier immediately crumpled with a shout – a state that would no doubt be temporary – releasing Frisk in the process.

That's where things went very wrong.

Instead of dodging around Javier's swearing form and ducking behind Sans, Frisk made for the train door on their left (or, as was the case, _Sans'_ right). They punched the emergency exit button to release the seal and pushed the doors aside with surprising strength and speed. And while Sans did try to yell a warning, the wind and noise that filled the train through the now open door completely drowned whatever it was he might have said.

And just like that, Frisk jumped.

Ignoring the screams and panic of the other passengers, Sans lurched to grab their hand before it was too late and missed by mere inches.

“god _dammit_!” He barely gave himself time to reconsider before he too jumped from the speeding train.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your point of view) the train had been going over a bridge at the time. Far below, a rocky valley grinned up at them with countless broken grey teeth; as deadly a place to land as any Sans could think of. But on the flip-side, they were high enough in the air that he found himself with several precious seconds to decide how to get them out of it...

He was starting to wish he'd just teleported them off the train when he had the chance.

 


	19. Chapter 19

For a terrifying moment, Sans was certain there was nothing he could do. There were too many factors at play – too many rapidly changing variables that had to be calculated with pinpoint precision if he and Frisk were going to avoid meeting a grizzly fate. The slightest inaccuracy would see them both splattered across the ground like roadkill, or worse, scattered across the void. Even the best case scenario – that he somehow managed to teleport them both out of a sheer drop at considerable speed – could end up putting them in more danger than they were already in.

What if they came out higher up? Or over water? Or in the middle of traffic?

But if there was one thing Sans excelled at, it was performing under pressure. And so with an effort, he shoved aside his doubts and turned his complete focus to the task at hand.

A quick assessment of the situation at least gave him a starting point. While performing two simultaneous shortcuts to the same place under these conditions would, Sans was sure, be much too complex and dangerous (not to mention quite possibly beyond his ability in the first place), altering Frisk's gravity to direct their fall towards him was easy enough. Establishing physical contact with them would create a single target, and _theoretically_ make teleporting the both of them much simpler.

Hopefully.

Acutely aware that time was of the essence, Sans endeavoured to waste as little of it as possible. Unlike teleportation magic, which took some fine tuning, gravity magic was as natural to him as breathing – it didn't take much more than a thought to turn Frisk's soul blue, and then abruptly they were falling sideways at an angle, his own body becoming the focal point of their descent. He smiled in spite of himself at the girlish screech they let out, filing the outburst away to tease them with later.

Sadly, his merriment didn't last long.

Though the distance between them did indeed start to close as intended, it wasn't until Frisk yelled for him to watch out that Sans remembered – much too late – that he needed to compensate for their velocity. The result was Frisk slamming bodily into his rib cage with all the force of a freight train, cracking at least two of the delicate bones that made up his torso and cleanly snapping the radius of his left arm.

“ _arrrgh!_ ” The pain was instantaneous and blinding, adding yet another layer of complication to a dilemma already at capacity. “sh-shit...”

Though he did of course immediately try to fight it, Sans promptly felt the darkness closing in around him, his own magic trying to put him under so it could start to repair the damage. The world tipped, and the skeleton with it, a tinny ringing all but drowning Frisk's desperate pleas as they clung to him.

Few people knew it, but Sans... wasn't nearly as untouchable as he liked to appear. It was true he had magic to spare, and his speed and dexterity could be second to none when he was properly motivated, but his stamina was – in a word – _shit_ , and he couldn't take so much as a glancing blow without serious consequences. It was, ironically, part of the reason he was so brutally efficient in his work – he simply couldn't afford not to be.

Basically, Sans was a glass cannon. Likely, the only reason the impact hadn't instantly dusted him was because there hadn't been any intention behind it – Frisk hadn't _wanted_ to hurt him.

Not that it mattered, given the decision facing him now.

“Sans! Wake up, _please!_ ” Frisk wailed, clinging to the front of his suit jacket for dear life.

Though his ribs roared in protest, Sans wormed his good arm around them and held them close. “'s okay, kid,” he slurred, patting their shoulder. “'m gon'... get us o-outta here. 's gon' be... f-fine...”

A shortcut now would be disastrous for him. Even if they made it, and that had never been certain to begin with, Sans knew he probably wouldn't have the magic necessary to repair himself afterwards. His body would shut down to conserve energy, and depending on the severity of the breaks and how fast he could regenerate the lost magic...

Well, he might not wake again.

But the alternative – letting them both fall to their deaths right here – was equally unthinkable.

“h-hold on, kid,” Sans grit out, throwing what was left of his concentration into his task. The magic answered his command sluggishly, reluctantly flowing away from his damaged bones to cocoon the two of them in a pocket of malleable void space.

Teleportation was a skill of two parts. The first – using magic to break down the reality around the target – was even harder under these circumstances than Sans had imagined it would be. His and Frisk's immediate reality was changing with every second they spent hurtling towards the ground, and in order to keep up he had to break down a lot more of the space ahead than he normally would to make sure they didn't slip out of the area of effect before it was finished.

The second phase – reshaping that broken reality into another reality – was harder still. He had to mould the new reality into the whole area all at once, something relatively easy under normal conditions, but tantamount to moving a mountain with his bear hands here.

Trying to specify the exact place he wanted to end up was damn near impossible, and so Sans didn't even bother. Instead, he tried to imbue the new reality with a sense of safety and isolation, and hoped that would be enough.

When Sans was as sure as he could be that he wasn't about to drop them into a volcano or something, he activated the transfer.

It was over between one blink and the next.

One second they were high above a rocky valley, rushing towards certain death, the next they were landing roughly, tumbling end over end through a patch of springy, overgrown grass in the middle of _Stars_ knew where. When they finally came to a stop, battered and bruised but very much alive, Sans let out a breathless chuckle of pure relief.

And then promptly blacked out.

* * *

 

Frisk's head was spinning. They were alive, but the landing had not been gentle, and it took several minutes before they felt steady enough to attempt to right themselves. A task made significantly more difficult by Sans' ungainly frame, which was still draped over them in the very position he'd landed in.

“Sans, you can get off now,” they groaned, patting the back of his skull. “And the next time you suggest jumping out of a moving train, I may be forced to kill you.”

Nothing. Not even a stupid pun.

“Sans, I'm serious! Get _off_!”

Still, the skeleton made no move to respond.

“Sans?”

Frisk wriggled one of their hands free and used it to help them push Sans off their stomach and onto his back. The complete lack of even a token resistance as they did so was their first hint that all was not well.

It was as they got to their knees to examine him that Frisk noticed the faint sheen of green healing magic on Sans' left arm and across his chest. That wasn't what made their heart seize and their pulse thrum in their ears though.

It was his face.

While they knew very well that Sans had fully functioning eyelids despite being a skeleton, for whatever reason they hadn't... well, _lidded_. The fact that he was unconscious was beyond doubt – Sans was a lot of things, but even he wouldn't joke about something like this. His eyes, however, were wide open, two black pits devoid of life in a face that looked more like it was made of bone in that moment than it ever had while he was awake.

The effect was uncanny, and Frisk had to swallow back a scream at the sight of it.

Once they got their instinctive horror under control (he looked _dead_ – more so than usual) the next logical step was to try and wake him. This... did not go well.

Shaking him had almost no impact at all, and – being well-versed in the monsters' peculiar weakness to intent – Frisk dared not strike him for fear of misjudging the force and doing more harm than good. Calling his name equally yielded them nothing, and by the time they started to accept that they were truly on their own, the sky had dimmed with the threat of rain.

“Great,” Frisk muttered, examining what they could see of the thick grey clouds through the trees. “Just _great_.”

They were as good as alone in the middle of a wood in the back end of God knew where, and not only did there appear to be no trails to follow, but by the sound of things they weren't even close to civilisation. Factor in that Sans clearly needed medical attention, and that they were being hunted by the son of one of their family's biggest rivals...

Yeah, they'd seen better odds.

“Okay. Okay. It's... it's not that bad.” It certainly wasn't _good_ , but they were still alive so that was something. “What I need is a plan.”

Well, their first priority was obvious. They needed to find people – ideally someone who could help Sans but, failing that, someone who would take them in and shelter them while Frisk did what _they_ could to help Sans.

The problem was, Frisk had no idea where they were. They didn't know which direction to walk in, and even if they did, they weren't sure how they were supposed to carry their backpack and Sans at the same time. Was it even safe to move him in this state? What if they did more damage?

They certainly couldn't just leave him – no matter how much he'd annoyed them earlier, he was still... still family. Hell, he was still a _person_ , and Frisk wasn't the sort to abandon _anyone_ in his state.

Unvoiced was the unsettling suspicion that if they left him unprotected, even for just the length of time it would take to find help, he might not be here when they got back. The thought was... sobering.

So... carrying him it was. But how? Lighter than he looked, Sans was still a considerable burden for someone Frisk's size. Their arms would give out in no time, and there was nothing in their surroundings that they could fashion into a makeshift sled fast enough – not when every second might count. Their backpack was taking up the only obvious alternative...

Which left them with a choice – Sans or the backpack?

Frisk sighed, slipping the shoulder straps down their arms and dropping the heavy bag on the ground. It wasn't even a choice, really – they weren't going anywhere without him.

They studied Sans' limp form on the ground with a critical eye – getting him on their back was certainly going to be a task all by itself, but getting him to stay there while they traversed what could become seriously treacherous terrain in the right conditions (the rain, for example...), was going to be a whole other problem. The only feasible idea they had was to fashion a sling and tie him in place, but to do that...

“First my dignity, then my backpack, now my clothes,” they muttered, going to their knees to rifle through the bag for something suitable.

It was easy enough to tear their clothes into rope-like strips, and the empty bag would even make decent padding against Sans' pointy limbs. The sock filled with cash they stuffed up their jumper, and after a moment's deliberation they filled their pockets with the last of Sans' Twinkies – if the worst happened and they ended up wandering the wilderness alone for days, high calorie food was going to be the order of the day, not apple chips.

Frisk turned once more to regard Sans, puzzling over how they were going to hoist him onto their back. In the end they wrapped several of their make-shift ropes around his arms and back and used the ends to winch him up over their shoulders. That done, they tied the fabric off with multiple knots under their own arms and – after a struggle that they're certain would have been humiliating had anyone witnessed it – used more 'rope' to secure Sans' lower half as well.

“We're gonna be okay,” Frisk murmured, as if saying it aloud would make it so. “I've got this.”

Stooping awkwardly to scoop up their half-full bottle of water from the ground, Frisk took a tiny mouthful before stowing it beside their money-sock – barring a swift return to civilisation, finding a source of drinkable water was going to need to be their first objective.

“Alright,” they said, tucking their arms beneath Sans' legs to support them. “Let's get the heck out of here.”

And, choosing a direction at random, Frisk started to walk.

* * *

 

Javier stared intensely the open door the skeleton and the Dreemurr brat had jumped through. Behind him, passengers were shouting and jostling for a better look, lending an edge of horror and utter confusion to the already perplexing scene.

They _jumped_. He couldn't believe they'd actually _jumped_. He'd heard all sorts of things about Sans the Skeleton – things that would make a lesser man think twice about going up against such an opponent – but the fact that he was very clearly a _crazy bastard_ had conspicuously never come up.

Javier snorted. He almost _admired_ the freak.

He was still staring when Kevin and Damien found him – they pushed through the crowd easily, dispersing the onlookers with a sharp word and a subtle flash of their guns.

“You okay, Jay?” Kevin asked, kneeling down. “What happened? Where's the skel?”

Kevin was his first cousin on his mother's side, and one of the only people Javier truly trusted, or even really liked. They'd grown up together, thick as thieves, and Javier took a moment to appreciate his continued existence before shoving him roughly aside as he got to his feet.

“He jumped,” Javier said simply, still secretly marvelling over the audacity of the move.

“Jumped?” asked Damien dubiously.

Damien made for a far less-welcome sight. Far from being among Javier's select inner circle, the stocky middle-aged man was his father's creature through and through. He'd joined Javier's vendetta on the premise that he'd been very fond of Lawrence's eldest son too, but the third Avery boy was no fool.

Damien was, for all intents and purposes, Javier's babysitter – his father's eyes and ears, a way for the old man to keep tabs on his every move. The knowledge rankled, though Javier did his best to appear unconcerned.

“Yes, jumped. Out of a moving train.” He laughed, the sound cold and humourless. “He has balls, I'll give him that.”

“So... he's dead then?” Damien frowned. “It's over?”

“Not hardly,” Javier sniffed. “Lest we forget, Sans the Skeleton has a certain skill for wriggling his way out of impossible situations. I've little doubt he and the brat will survive _somehow_.”

“Brat?”

“The Dreemurr girl. She was here as well – an unexpected opportunity I failed to capitalise on, I'm afraid.”

“Pity,” Damien mused. “not much your Da wouldn't trade to get his hands on that particular affront to humanity.”

“Indeed,” Javier said through gritted teeth. After all, that much had already been well established ten years ago when he traded his eldest son's life in the first attempt.

“So what now?” Kevin interjected, sensing his cousin's growing hostility. “You want we should stop the train and get off ta look for 'em?”

Javier thought about that for a moment, then shook his head. “No. As it happens, I have a better idea.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first thing: check out this [awesome fanart](https://sorceresszee.tumblr.com/post/172330401752/and-this-frisk-is-why-you-dont-ever-let-the) by Curiouser Yet Curiouser! I dub this scene canon to the story from now on, taking place sometime after Sans strolls up with breakfast the morning after the diner incident and before they get on the train.
> 
> Also, they drew me cover art! It's embedded in the first chapter, but you can also take a gander [here](https://sorceresszee.tumblr.com/post/172242500102/the-cover-for-the-story-grayscale-by-opalfruits)!
> 
> Second: I'll probably be too busy studying for the next 9-10 weeks to write or update much. I'll try, but fair warning - writing won't be my priority for the foreseeable future (though as always, I promise I WILL finish the story at some point).


	20. Chapter 20

“SANS, THIS REALLY ISN'T FUNNY ANYMORE. UNDYNE AND I ARE WORRIED _SICK_ – PLEASE CALL ME BACK WHEN YOU GET THIS MESSAGE.”

Papyrus ended the latest in a whole string of worried calls to his brother with an unhappy sigh. It had been several hours since the skeletons had last made contact, and what had originally started out as a routine update on their location had quickly turned into a nightmare in the first degree.

Undyne ended her own call a moment later and joined him where he loitered by the busy station exit. “Still no word?”

“I AM AFRAID NOT,” Papyrus admitted, turning his frustratingly silent phone over and over in his bony hands. “THIS IS... NOT GOOD.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Undyne grumbled. “It's only our first day on the job and we've already lost them! I _knew_ this was a bad idea.”

Papyrus was a glass-half-full kind of skeleton, but even he couldn't argue with that assessment. “DID YOU SPEAK TO THE SECURITY TEAM?”

“Yeah – no sign of a skeleton monster or a squinty-eyed human on any of the morning's footage. I made 'em double check.” She gave him an appraising look. “There was... _somethin_ ' though.”

“OH?”

“Some kinda incident on one of the trains. Couldn't give me any details 'cause it's still under investigation or some shit, but if I were a bettin' fish...”

Papyrus sighed. “THE WORD 'INCIDENT' AND SANS ARE USUALLY SYNONYMOUS WITH ONE ANOTHER. WHICH MEANS...”

Undyne cackled, rubbing her hands together in excitement. “Stealth mission!”

* * *

 

Frisk was, in a word, _exhausted._

Their feet throbbed horribly with each and every step, blisters upon blisters threatening to burst like so much bubble wrap as the skin on their soles was rubbed raw by socks ill-suited to the rigours of a hike. Their lower back was in agony, too – the strain of being so unnaturally hunched under the weight of a comatose skeleton was starting to make itself known. To make matters worse, they could feel large and painful bruises forming under Sans' many pointy edges, even despite the flimsy padding their backpack provided.

And the final straw? It had been raining quite heavily for well over an hour, making the ground beneath their feet both messy and treacherous – already they were covered in mud from ankle to thigh, and they'd slipped twice on the incline they were currently inching their way down in the past five minutes alone. What progress they'd made thus far had been hard won, and with still no sign of... well, _anything,_ Frisk was beginning to lose hope.

The fact that Sans' life hung in the balance did not make their burden any easier.

 _No,_ Frisk thought fiercely. _I'm **not** losing him – not like this._

They clenched their jaw at the thought, drawing on every last ounce of determination they could muster, and even though their legs felt like jelly – even though their stomach was howling and their throat was parched and their arms ached with pins and needles where they held Sans' legs – they somehow found the energy to take another step.

“I'm not giving up,” they told the inert monster on their back. “I'll keep going till we find help, or I'll die trying.”

Naturally, Sans didn't respond. He hadn't in the whole time they'd been here. Frisk ignored the pang of loneliness in their chest, and the accompanying fear that all the determination in the world might not be enough to save him. Thoughts like that weren't helpful at all.

“The rain's good for one thing at least,” Frisk continued, forcefully upbeat. They narrowly avoided another slip as they manoeuvred around an overgrown scrub. “I did manage to fill up the water bottle.” True, they'd had to stand with the bottle uncapped under one of the few patches of open sky for close to twenty minutes in order to do so, thereby wasting precious time that could make all the difference to Sans' plight, but the logical part of their brain knew that walking themselves unto dehydration wasn't going to do the skeleton any favours either.

“It's probably not the cleanest water,” they mused after a second, if only to block out the deafening lack of reply from their companion. “but it'll have to do.”

The rain continued to beat down around them, sticking Frisk's hair to their skin and soaking through the front of their jacket. Sans was probably drenched by now too, but they supposed there was little they could do about that – even if they'd had something to cover him with (which they didn't) stopping now might make it impossible to start again.

And for Sans' sake, they had to keep going.

“You better not die, Sans,” they huffed after a time, noting with some relief that the ground appeared to be gradually evening out. “After all this, you better not leave me out here all alone.” Their hands tightened reflexively where they held his femurs for balance.

They marched grimly down the last of the slope, and paused briefly at the bottom to assess their surroundings . Nothing but dense woodland in every direction. Up ahead, the trees sloped away down another hill and – figuring that downhill was their best bet – they quickly adjusted Sans' bulk on their back before taking off again.

“Please don't die,” Frisk whispered, keeping their eyes on the path set before them. “I know I haven't – haven't always been a good friend to you in recent years, but I... I still _care,_ y'know?”

No answer. Not that they were expecting one.

“I never stopped caring,” they admitted. “I know it might have seemed that way sometimes, but I didn't.” A humourless laugh fell from their lips. “I think that was part of the problem. What I saw... _that_ night... it scared me. I was young, and scared, and I didn't... I didn't _understand_. I didn't understand how someone I loved _so much_... could be capable of something so _horrible_.”

To Frisk's surprise, the admission – such as it was – was accompanied by an immense feeling of genuine relief. They'd been carrying these feelings for such a long time. It felt good to finally give them voice.

“I still don't.” Their voice started to tremble and their eyes began to feel warm, but still Frisk kept going. This felt like it was important. It was less a conversation with Sans than it was with themselves now. “I don't l- _like_ that part of you, Sans and I... I probably never will. It goes against everything I am, everything I _want_ to be. But... I love _you_. You're my friend. My _family_. And even if we don't always agree, that will never stop being true.”

Was it just their imagination, or did Sans give a tiny twitch?

“So please,” they begged. “ _please_ don't leave me.”

* * *

 

It was some time before the little lodge came into view, by which point Frisk was running on sheer determination alone. They'd forced themselves to eat some of the Twinkies while they walked – a stopgap measure against the ever-encroaching fatigue – but though the snacks did provide a much needed boost, the energy was short-lived, and followed by a low that left them feeling worse than ever.

The sight of the homely building, windows alive with light and chimney spewing a plume of aromatic smoke into the darkening sky, brought fresh tears to Frisk's tired eyes. For a moment all they could do was stare, so overwhelmed with gratitude that they nearly collapsed to the cold, wet earth then and there. Only the dull, constant press of Sans' bones against their back reminded them to keep going.

“Nearly there, Sans,” they sniffed, voice thick with emotion as they stumbled away from the treeline and onto the wide dirt road stretching out in either direction. “We're gonna make it.”

The heavy wooden door, when they reached it, was mercifully unlocked, and with the last of their strength Frisk pulled the handle and all but _fell_ through the entrance. They tried to take another step, but now that they knew they were safe their body refused to obey. After brief struggle they dropped to their hands and knees – a mere instant later, their arms too gave way and they fell fully upon the thick woollen rug below.

“H... h-help...” Frisk croaked, Sans' dead weight crushing the air from their lungs.

Nobody came.

Licking their lips, Frisk laboriously dragged an arm beneath themselves and used it to help raise their torso. Blearily, they took in their surroundings as they gathered themselves to try again.

The place was small, but pleasantly rustic – it smelled like roasting meat and burning wood, the atmosphere warm and inviting, heavenly after the cold and discomfort of the woods. A fire burned merrily in the grate opposite the front door, and an aperture in the centre of the otherwise wood-floored room served as a cosy, carpeted lounge area, complete with plush leather couches and a low coffee table piled with miscellaneous magazines and a well-stocked fruit bowl. On the far right and to the back of the room there was a pool table, beside it a set of stairs leading up to the second floor. A glance in the other direction revealed a well-stocked bookcase, and an entryway leading to – presumably – the kitchen. The walls to either side of the fire were dominated by floor to ceiling windows, opening onto a veranda that overlooked a small lake.

Pleasant as the scene was, Frisk had more important things to worry about. Now that they were paying attention, they could hear a low humming coming from the kitchen area, alongside the distinctive 'chop, chop, chop' of a knife against a chopping board. Mustering what little determination they still had left, they cleared their throat to make one final plea.

“H-hello?” Frisk cried. “Somebody, please _help_!”

For a disheartening moment nothing happened. And then-,

“Whazzat?”

A second later a large, brown-shelled turtle-monster appeared in the kitchen doorway, blade still in hand, it's edge coated with a fine layer of green. At the sight of them his yellow eyes widened beneath fuzzy brows flecked with grey, and with a speed contradicted by his considerable size he was on his knees beside them in an instant.

“Whoa there, kiddo,” he soothed. “I gotcha.”

His speech was so like Sans' it made them want to weep.

“P-please,” they wailed, even as the monster started cutting away the make-shift ropes binding the skeleton to their back. “It's m-my friend – you have to _help_ him!”

“He's in good hands,” the turtle promised, lifting Sans into one arm as easily as though he were a ragdoll. He started at the sight of Sans' face, a small frown taking over his features. “Well, I'll be – what in stars' name have ya done ta yourself, boy?” he muttered.

“Is... is he going to be okay?” Frisk fretted.

“He will if I have anythin' ta say about it, youngin',” the turtle replied. He turned towards the stairs. “Thomas! Judy! Get down here, quick – we got an emergency!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE! 
> 
> Lol, jk I'm actually dying... Or my soul and will to live are at any rate. Studying is _hard_ , yo.
> 
> Sorry to anyone who has been kind enough to leave a comment that I haven't gotten back to - I promise I read them and deeply appreciate them.


	21. Chapter 21

“THEY JUMPED OFF THE TRAIN?!” Papyrus yelled, his volume justified for once.

“Looks like it,” Undyne snickered, re-reading the official report she'd stolen with something close to admiration. “Damn, I don't give your bro _nearly_ enough credit. What a badass.”

“I... I THINK...” Papyrus visibly struggled with himself for a second. “YES,” he said at last. “I THINK I'M GOING TO KILL HIM. OF ALL THE RIDICULOUS, ASININE THINGS TO... A _TRAIN,_ UNDYNE! A _MOVING_ TRAIN! OVER A RAVINE! WITH FRISK!”

“Jeez Pap, calm down-,”

“DID YOU NOT HEAR ME?” he shrieked. “MY BROTHER JUMPED OFF A TRAIN!”

Undyne winced. “ _Dogs_ can hear you, dude. Come on, it's not that bad.”

“NOT THAT BAD? NOT THAT _BAD?_ THIS IS WELL BEYOND BAD, UNDYNE.”

“How come?” Undyne questioned, idly scratching behind her left fin. “Sans can teleport can't he? Relax nerd, they'll be fine!”

“HOW CO-,” Papyrus took a deep breath, very deliberately composing himself. “DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT MY BROTHER'S MAGIC, UNDYNE?”

“Uh... no?”

“THEN ALLOW ME TO ENLIGHTEN YOU. IMAGINE THROWING A BALL IN THE AIR AND THEN CATCHING IT AGAIN – EASY, YES?”

Undyne cautiously agreed. “Yeah...”

“ALRIGHT. NOW IMAGINE THAT THE ENERGY IT REQUIRES TO MAKE THE INITIAL THROW IS THE EQUIVALENT OF THE MAGIC REQUIRED TO DO ONE OF SANS' SHORTCUTS. THE HEIGHT OF THE THROW IS THE DISTANCE BETWEEN THE STARTING POINT AND YOUR DESTINATION. THE SIZE OF THE BALL IS THE MASS YOU NEED TO SUCCESSFULLY TELEPORT, AND CATCHING THE BALL AT THE END SIGNIFIES COMING OUT OF THE SHORTCUT IN ONE PIECE AND IN THE PLACE YOU WANTED TO BE. WITH ME SO FAR?”

“Sounds simple enough.” Put like that, she was actually starting to wonder why _she_ couldn't use these so-called shortcuts.

“INDEED,” Papyrus granted. “BUT WHAT ABOUT CATCHING _TWO_ BALLS AT THE EXACT SAME TIME? WHAT IF THEY WERE _BOWLING_ BALLS? WHAT ABOUT DOING IT ON THE MOVE? OR WHILE _FALLING THROUGH THE AIR_? IS IT STILL EASY THEN?”

Undyne was pretty damn confident in her own physical prowess, but even _she_ couldn't help but blanch at the impossibility of such a task. “Oh.”

“YES,” Papyrus said meaningfully. “OH.”

“Wait, you don't think they're...” She dared not finish that thought.

Papyrus looked grim. “THE REPORT STATES THAT NO REMAINS HAVE BEEN FOUND THUS FAR – GIVEN THE AMOUNT OF TIME BETWEEN THE INCIDENT AND THE POINT AT WHICH IT WAS WRITTEN, I BELIEVE THAT MEANS WE CAN SAFELY ASSUME THEY DIDN'T LAND IN THE VALLEY.”

Undyne perked up. “So... they're alive then?”

“PERHAPS. OR IT COULD BE THAT THEY SIMPLY DIDN'T DIE _HERE_.” He didn't need to paint her a picture for Undyne to get what he meant by _that_. “IN LIGHT OF THIS NEWS, THE FACT THAT SANS IS NOT ANSWERING HIS PHONE IS A MUCH MORE TROUBLING DEVELOPMENT THAN I FIRST THOUGHT. BEST CASE SCENARIO, IT MEANS HE HAS EITHER LOST IT OR BROKEN IT. THE MORE LIKELY EXPLANATION, HOWEVER...” He met Undyne's anxious gaze over the open report. “ IS THAT HE IS _UNABLE_ TO ANSWER.”

The pair sat in silence, each contemplating the new situation they now found themselves in.

After several minutes, Undyne summed up their circumstances in the only truly adequate manner there was.

“Shit.”

* * *

 

Frisk studied Sans' phone – retrieved from his jacket pocket some time last night after Gerson (the turtle-monster) had stripped it from him – with a grimace. The screen was cracked, no doubt a consequence of their rough landing in the woods, but despite that the device appeared to still be functional. Even so, it was about as useful to them as a brick right now.

Twelve missed calls from Papyrus, and several texts besides, the notifications proclaimed. There were probably more, but since there wasn't even the _hint_ of a signal out here in the boonies, those messages would be floating around uselessly somewhere in cyberspace. Even supposing they could figure out Sans' passcode – and they _couldn't;_ they'd tried and gotten themselves locked out – they'd have a better chance of sending a message through smoke signals.

With a sigh, they slid the phone into their own pocket before turning their attention back to the skeleton on the bed.

His eyes were closed now – _properly_ closed. Gerson had explained to them that the magic depletion that was now keeping Sans knocked out had been severe enough that he hadn't had enough to spare for forming eyelids at first. He'd laughed outright when Frisk pointed out that they'd thought the eyelids were just another part of him.

“ _Wa ha ha! That's a good one kid! How many skels you know have eyelids, eh?”_

It made an embarrassing amount of sense, come to think of it...

In any case, Gerson was – fortunately for them – proficient in healing. He'd given Sans an infusion of his magic ( _“Not as good as his own stuff, but it'll do in a pinch.”_ ) and although it would need topped up frequently for the next few days on account of his injuries, chances were good he'd pull through just fine.

“I'll be here the whole time,” they vowed, taking Sans' limp hand in theirs. “So don't take too long about waking up...” They leaned forward to rest their forehead against his knuckles. “Bonehead.”

“Hey.”

A soft voice interrupted the otherwise soft silence, and Frisk turned to identify the owner. Standing at the door, looking shy and more than a little nervous, was Judy Cutler.

“You hungry? I brought some, uh...” She nodded at the tray in her hands. “food,” she finished lamely.

Frisk blinked. “Oh. Um... thanks.”

Judy was a timid girl of no more than thirteen – tall and gangly, with the same dusty blonde hair as her father. She had a smattering of freckles on her pale, pointed face, and eyes as blue as two chips of ice. But for all that, whatever Judy may have lacked in beauty (the traditional sense of it at least) she made up for in kindness – thus far she had almost single-handedly seen to Frisk's every comfort, even going as far as to move the lounge chair from her own room into the guest room so that Frisk would have somewhere comfortable to sit by Sans' side.

“It's no problem,” Judy smiled, coming over to put the tray on the sideboard. “Do you, um... want me to bring you a book, or...?”

Frisk smiled gratefully, but shook their head. “No thank you.”

“O-oh... Okay, well... if you need anything...”

They nodded. “I'll let you know.”

They waited until Judy had left the room again before they turned back to Sans.

“Nice girl, huh?” they said quietly. “You'd probably have no problem charming _her._ ”

Sans made no reply. Somehow, the fact that he didn't – _couldn't –_ answer hadn't quelled their desire to talk to him.

“Hard to believe it was just yesterday morning you were teasing me for having a crush on you,” they continued, stroking their thumb over his metacarpals. “Bet neither of us saw this coming.”

Still nothing. Frisk didn't know if them talking to him like this was actually doing any good. They supposed it didn't really matter either way.

“Lucky we found this place when we did, huh? Things could have been a lot worse if we hadn't.”

They let the silence stretch longer this time.

At last they sighed, leaning over again to rest their head against his arm. “I'm sorry, Sans. It's my fault we're in this mess.” Their fingers tightened around his reflexively with the admission. “I should have known I'd be followed. I should have known there's no escaping who you are.” A pause, and then, so quietly he probably wouldn't have heard them even if he'd been conscious, “I should have... stayed.”

It was all they'd been able to think about last night, the thought chasing itself round and round their head as they watched Sans sleep. They should have stayed in Ebott. They should have accepted their fate, the one their family laid out for them so long ago. If they had, none of this would have happened.

They'd wanted to find a better way – a way to get the monsters the rights they deserved without hurting anyone. But in their drive to do that, people had gotten hurt anyway. Sans was – for all intents and purposes – at death's door, and it was simply because they were who they were.

If their family's enemies had found them before, there was little question they could do it again. Frisk realised now that they would never be safe. And by extension, that meant the people who got close to them would never be safe either.

Knowing that, how could they possibly justify going to Atlanta now?

 


	22. Chapter 22

Frisk watched while Gerson gave Sans yet another magic transfusion. It had been three days since they'd fallen through the lodge's door with Sans on their back, and in that time they'd scarcely left his side for more than a minute. Even so, they'd learned a lot about the place in that time, and about the people who'd been kind enough to take them in.

Gerson was an old monster – 'older than the _hills_ ', or so he claimed – and had once lived in Ebott alongside the majority of his monster brethren before moving out this way some fifty years ago. The fact that he came from Frisk's own home town wasn't that surprising honestly; most monsters _did_. But whenever they started to press for details, he danced around his past and his reasons for leaving like nobody's business. Frisk had their own suspicions about that, but they made a very deliberate point not to voice them – after everything he was already doing for them, the old turtle was entitled to whatever secrets he wanted.

That said, when it came to his current circumstances he was an open book. Apparently he minded this little lodge – which Frisk had only been mildly surprised to learn was located in Shoshone National Forest, Wyoming – for Thomas and Judy while they were living day-to-day out in Dubois. For ten years he'd kept the place clean and well stocked in anticipation of their regular visits during the holidays, and when they _were_ around he cooked for them more often than not.

“It's a good life,” he'd chuckled. “Free room an' board, plenty time ta indulge my hobbies...” He'd paused then, and look of such fondness had come over his face that Frisk had felt obliged to look away. “An' I get ta watch little Judy grow inta a fine young lady.”

Thomas was more of a mystery than either Gerson or Judy. What little Frisk saw of him left them with the impression of a good man, and a dedicated father, but he wasn't much of a talker and Frisk was in no state of mind to converse much either. Judy had volunteered the information that he used to be in the marines, but had taken early retirement when her mother died in an accident when she was just three. Since then he'd worked odd jobs here and there, not because he particularly needed the money – he'd put most of the money from his wife's insurance into high interest, low risk stocks – but because he needed something to do while Judy went to school.

Judy herself was a little easier to read than her father, but not by much. A shy teenager on the cusp of puberty, she often projected a sense of girlish vapidity while simultaneously being anything but. Kinder than almost any other teen Frisk had ever met, she nonetheless had a surprising streak of sharp intellect and determination. The few times Frisk had ventured from the spare room – either to use the toilet or to ask a question of Gerson about Sans' frustratingly slow recovery – Judy had invariably been either in the lounge with a book or (when the weather took a turn for the better on the second evening) out on the veranda with one. When, out of sheer curiosity, Frisk had bothered to ask what the book was about, the girl had blushed and shown them the cover.

“'String Theory and M-Theory: A Modern Introduction',” Frisk had read aloud. “Wow, that's... that's some pretty heavy reading there.”

A hard look had come over Judy's features then, and when she replied there was something defiant in her tone. “Not at all – I find it absolutely fascinating.”

“Do you, uh... understand it?”

“Well... not _all_ of it,” Judy had admitted. “But it's the only book here I haven't read yet, so...” She'd shrugged. “Guess I'll understand it better when I'm done.”

Somehow, the fact that Judy was the kind of girl who would read a ponderous, University-level textbook simply because she'd read everything else was... Well, pretty damn impressive as far as Frisk was concerned.

“Somethin' on your mind, kid?” Gerson asked, hands glowing where they hovered over Sans' ribcage.

Frisk shook themselves from their distracted meanderings. They hadn't slept properly in days, too busy worrying that they might close their eyes only for Sans to turn to dust, and as such it was becoming more and more difficult to keep their mind from wandering.

“Not really,” they replied. “Just...”

“Just?” Gerson prompted.

Frisk sighed. “Shouldn't he have... you know, woken up by now? I know you said these things take time, but...”

Gerson eyed them over Sans' prone body, his normally jovial expression quite serious for once. After a minute his hands lost their ethereal glow and he pulled them back with a grunt, crossing them over his broad chest. Finally, with an air of defeat, he rumbled, “Sansy ain't as robust as most monsters, kiddo – ya gotta give him time. 'sides, magic like mine 's a poor substitute for what he's usually packin', y'know? Be a lot faster if we had a closer match for him.”

They tilted their head to the side, curious but somewhat less than surprised. “'Sansy', huh? I _knew_ you knew him.”

“ _Know_ him? Wa ha ha! I practically _raised_ him!” Gerson boomed, thumping his chest. The gravity of mere moments ago was suddenly replaced by something akin to pride – Frisk couldn't help but smile to hear it. “Him and that brother o' his were nothin' but a pair of bony delinquents 'fore I got my claws on 'em!”

“No one's ever mentioned you,” they noted.

“Nah, don't suppose they would,” he said, sobering. The smile he offered them then was as sad as any they'd ever seen, something bruised and heavy lying just beneath the surface. “Guess some bridges just got too much water under 'em.”

Though they hadn't done so on purpose, Frisk immediately felt bad for bringing up such obviously painful memories. They floundered for a bit, unsure how to respond to so raw a confession. It wasn't until their gaze returned to Sans' peaceful face that their sluggish mind spewed forth a suggestion.

“What were they like? As kids, I mean?”

“Hmm, let's see now,” Gerson mused, tugging on his wispy beard as he considered the question. “Well, Papy – he was a always bit of a crybaby. Good kid, an' smart as a whip, but never much good at stickin' up for himself. But Sansy,” he gave that funny laugh of his, “now, _he_ was the troublemaker! Papy was no slouch, but this 'un,” he nodded to the skeleton in question, “this 'un was too damn sharp by far. Didn't always use those brains of his for good neither. Always playin' tricks on folks an' gettin' him and his bro inta hot water. Had ta take him to task more 'n once over the years. There was this one time...”

Once he got going, Gerson could _really_ talk. It was hours before the old turtle excused himself again, and even then only because there was a dinner to get on the table. Honestly though, Frisk hadn't minded the company – they'd actually enjoyed listening to his tales, learning all about the shenanigans Sans and Papyrus used to get up to when they were younger. There were certainly a few titbits they looked forward to bringing up at a later date, and the clown wig school picture story Sans himself had told them back in the diner had been confirmed as being true.

“Got one of the pictures stashed away somewhere myself!” Gerson had guffawed with a wink. “I'll look it out for ya.”

It had been an entertaining afternoon. They'd laughed – _truly_ laughed – for the first time in what now felt like forever, and though they'd still refused his offer of taking them out for a walk around the grounds, they spent the rest of the evening feeling lighter than they had since this whole mess began.

* * *

 

It was the afternoon of the forth day. Sans still hadn't awoken, but at one point his fingers had twitched where they lay in Frisk's hand. Since then Frisk had been watching his face with more vigilance than usual, hopeful that he might give some other indication of an impending return to consciousness.

They almost didn't notice Judy enter the room with yet another tray in her hands, turning to look at her only when she gave a delicate cough.

“I brought dinner.”

Frisk turned back to Sans. “Thanks – you can put it on the sideboard.”

Unlike previous exchanges however, this time Judy didn't simply put down the tray and leave. Instead, she brought the meal straight to them, placing it pointedly on their knees – it was, by the girl's standards, an incredibly bold move. When Frisk raised their eyes, stunned, she smiled apologetically and sat gingerly on the bottom of Sans' bed.

“Gerson said I had to make sure you actually eat it this time,” she said by way of explanation. “Go on, try some – he may have a sharp tongue, but his cooking goes down smooth as butter.”

“I, uh...” They briefly considered arguing that they _had_ been eating, but they knew that merely picking at the food was hardly what the girl meant. “Okay...”

Absently taking up the fork lying beside the plate, Frisk examined their food closely for the very first time since arriving at the lodge, taking the time to appreciate the delicious smell wafting from it. The dish was macaroni cheese – one of their old favourites – and it was only now that they were actually looking at it that they realised just how hungry they were.

They dug in with an enthusiasm that made Judy chuckle.

“You really do love him, don't you Miss?” Judy asked softly after a while.

Frisk paused with the fork halfway to their mouth and blinked. Perhaps it shouldn't have, but the question – innocuous though it seemed – took them by surprise. So much so that, for a moment, they even forgot to correct her on the pronoun.

The answer, of course, was easy – of _course_ Frisk loved him. Really, they always had. Looking back, it was so easy now to see that part of the reason they'd become so estranged over the years was exactly _because_ they loved him. All that anger, all that aggression... it hadn't really been about _him_ at all. It had been about _them._ Them, and their inability reconcile the things he'd done, with the man they'd believed he was – the man they'd _wanted_ to believe he was.

They were slowly starting to come to terms with those feelings, gradually accepting that – whatever else Sans might be – he was _family_ first and foremost, but did that mean that they _loved_ him? In the sense that Judy obviously meant it?

Frisk... honestly wasn't certain. Sure, they'd had a crush on him once, but that had been the superficial fancies of a confused and hormonal teenager – a side effect of the complex love-hate nature that had defined their relationship since that day ten years ago. The sad truth was, they'd spent so long being mad or frustrated with him that these days they didn't really know _what_ lay beneath the hostility.

Now probably wasn't the time to find out either and so, if only to sidestep the topic, Frisk replied, “I'm not a 'Miss'.”

“Oh!” Judy gave them a bewildered look. Her eyes drifted briefly to Frisk's modest chest, before snapping back to their face with a puzzled but apologetic expression. “I'm sorry, uh... Mister?”

“Not a Mister either,” Frisk smiled. Normally this kind of gender-assuming bullshit was an express ticket to their bad side, but Judy was so earnest in her confusion that they couldn't quite muster the will to tear into her for it.

“So... what do I... um...”

“Frisk. Just Frisk.” And then, because they knew she was going to ask anyway, Frisk added, “I'm agender – neither male nor female.”

To her credit, Judy didn't recoil from this information in the manner Frisk was ever so used to. Instead her eyes took on a curious gleam and she said, “But you have...” she pointed to their chest, “and... your voice is kind of...”

Frisk laughed. “Yeah. No getting away from that.” They took a thoughtful mouthful of the nearly forgotten macaroni, inwardly debating how best to phrase their particular situation. “My _sex_ is female,” they said at last. “But sex and gender aren't the same thing. Sex is only about what's on the surface. Gender is about everything else.” They tapped one finger against their temple. “It's about how you feel, how you think... where you ultimately view yourself on the scale between masculine and feminine. Me? I don't think of myself as falling into neat categories like 'male' or 'female'. So,” they shrugged, “I choose not to identify as either.”

“Oh.” Judy seemed to think this over. “That's fair, I guess,” she said at length. There was a moment's pause before, “So how long have you been... um, neither?”

Frisk immediately began to feel uncomfortable – this particular topic danced entirely too close to childhood traumas best left buried. “A while, I guess. It's, uh...”

They studied Judy's face for a second and, detecting not an ounce of guile, made the snap decision to tell her the truth.

“Okay, so... when I was little I was, uh...” There was no easy way to say it. “kidnapped. By some really bad people.” Judy looked suitably horrified by this, but before she could say anything Frisk rushed to cut her off. “It didn't last long and I don't like to talk about it, but... yeah. A-anyway I found out later that these people had planned to... to sell me. To,” _a prostitution ring_ “some even worse people. I could have ended up in a horrible situation, all because I happened to be a girl. It got me thinking – was a 'girl' really all I was to these people? Is what's between my legs the only thing that defines me? I didn't want to think so, and so...” They shrugged. “Here I am.”

It was an egregious oversimplification of a decision that had in reality been much more convoluted and complex. Still, the core message was true enough, so they ran with it. Judy was only thirteen after all, and besides – there were some things that words simply couldn't do justice.

“Huh,” Judy said. “Okay.”

And that was it.

Frisk frowned. “You, uh... don't have any questions?” they asked.

“Oh, plenty,” she replied. “But you said already you don't like talking about it so...”

It was, quite possibly, the most considerate thing anyone had ever said to them. Overcome, it took Frisk a full minute to compose themselves enough to spit out an answer.

“Thank you.”

Judy only smiled. “No problem, Frisk.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody want to hazard a guess about why ol' Gerson left home? It'll come up later, but I'm curious to see whether anybody has picked up on the tiny clue I left and figured something out.


	23. Chapter 23

It was another two days before Sans finally awoke. Frisk – finally succumbing to the prolonged lack of sleep – was dozing in their chair when it happened, and so missed the exact moment of his awakening. It wasn't until he groaned, the sound long and low and blessedly _alive,_ that their eyes snapped open, just in time to see him struggle into a sitting position.

“Sans!” they cried, on their feet in an instant, hands fluttering indecisively.

“ugh... did somebody get the number of that truck?” he moaned, cradling his skull in one hand. His eyes were screwed shut and his grin looked more like a grimace, but in that precise moment Frisk was too relieved to care.

“It was a train, actually,” they laughed, tears in their eyes. After another second of hesitation they gave in and wrapped him in a fierce embrace, ignoring the startled yelp he gave and sinking onto the mattress beside him. “Don't _do_ that to me! I thought you... I thought...” It was no use – their words were made unintelligible by the grateful sob that worked it's way out of their throat.

Baffled, Sans patted their shoulder awkwardly. Frisk knew that from his perspective this must all seem very sudden – who even knew what his last memory might be? Did he remember their jump from the train? Did he remember getting on the train at all? Still, after almost a week of near constant worry, Frisk felt they were _owed_ this much.

When they finally gathered themselves and pulled back, they couldn't keep the watery smile off their face. “Y-you _idiot_! You scared the sh-shit outta me!”

“uh... sorry?”

“Damn r-right!” Frisk wiped the tears from their cheeks, trying to muster what was left of their dignity. “What was I supposed to d-do if you _dusted_ , huh?”

“um...”

Whatever Sans might have said was immediately cut off by the timely arrival of Gerson.

“Well, well. Awake at last, are we?” the old turtle huffed, taking the scene in stride before coming around the other side of the bed to take Sans' bony wrist in one deceptively gentle claw. “'bout time too.”

Sans stared at the other monster as though he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. From what Frisk had gathered during their chats over the past week, that wasn't completely unreasonable – according to Gerson, despite his heavy involvement in Sans and Papyrus' early years, he hadn't actually spoken with them in the five decades since he'd left Ebott.

“that _you,_ old man?” the skeleton asked uncertainly.

“Here now, less of the 'old' ya lil' brat.” Despite the harshness of the words themselves, there was no bite to the admonishment. Eventually, Gerson dropped the wrist he held and studied Sans with a shrewd expression. “How'd ya feel, boy?”

“like i just got steam-rolled. twice.”

“You will at that,” Gerson agreed. “Lazy as ya are, a week's overdoin' it even for you.”

“a _week_?” Immediately Sans burst into action, trying to manoeuvre his uncooperative body into position so he could get out of bed. “what do ya mean a _week_? where are we? where's my phone?” He paused in his attempts to free himself from the sheets as something else abruptly caught his attention “where're my clothes?!”

Frisk wrinkled their nose. “You didn't honestly think we'd leave you lying in that dirty suit all week did you?”

Despite – or perhaps _because_ of – the faint bluish tinge on his cheeks, Sans offered them a suggestive smirk. “didn't think you'd be so eager ta get me outta it.”

Before Frisk could respond, Gerson gave him a measured cuff on the back of the skull.

“argh!”

“Mind yer manners,” the turtle growled. “We _both_ know I raised ya better 'n that.”

To Frisk's eternal surprise, Sans actually apologised. “s-sorry, kid,” he said sheepishly. “'m just feelin' a little... vulnerable right now.”

Frisk turned to Gerson. “You need to teach me that.”

“Wa ha ha! Ain't nothin' to it, youngin'. Sometimes ya just gotta let Sansy know ya ain't takin' none of his crap.”

“ _anyway_ ,” Sans coughed, settling back against the headboard. “somebody wanna fill me in?”

It took Frisk a while to recount the tale, mostly because Sans and Gerson frequently stopped them to ask for clarification on certain points. To Frisk's utter chagrin, it became apparent quite quickly that Sans had never intended for them to jump from the train in the first place.

“Ya told 'em ta jump off a movin' train?!” Gerson had asked incredulously. “Ye Gods boy, I knew y' had a reckless streak, but I didn't think I'd raised a darn fool!”

“i didn't! i meant for them ta run past me!” Equally aghast, Sans had then turned to Frisk. “why would ya _listen_ to someone tellin' ya ta jump off a train?!”

Embarrassed, Frisk had looked away before murmuring, “I knew you'd catch me.”

Sans hadn't seemed to know quite what to say to that. Eventually, he'd conceded the point with a slightly flustered grunt. “well, i guess it turned out fine in the end... let's not be jumpin' off any more trains though, 'kay?”

It was an easy enough concession to make.

By the time they finished talking Gerson was shaking his head. “I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't been there when ya stumbled through the door that day. Reckon Sansy owes you a mighty debt, youngin'.”

Sans himself was looking at them with an expression they weren't quite sure how to read. Was that awe? Gratitude? They weren't entirely certain, but whatever it was made them feel distinctly uncomfortable.

“It's nothing...” Frisk mumbled, looking anywhere but at the two monsters. “Sans has saved my life plenty of times. If anything, _I_ owe _him_.”

“Mm.” The old turtle didn't seem convinced. “Welp. Pleasant as this little chat's been, it's time I get dinner started. I'll leave you two ta puzzle out who owes who what.” Just before he disappeared through the door, he threw one last wry glance over his shoulder. “An' Sansy? It's good ta see ya again, son.”

“yeah,” Sans replied with unmistakable fondness. “you too, old man.”

The silence left behind by Gerson's departure was as tense as any Frisk had ever endured – and considering their fraught history with Sans, that was certainly saying something.

“so, uh...” he said at last, just as Frisk was beginning to think it might never end. “you carried me down a mountain?”

“Yeah.” Then, in an attempt to drive the conversation into more familiar territory they added rather blithely, “It wasn't easy either. You're not heavy, but I had a tonne of bruises by the time I dragged your bony butt down here.”

Sans chuckled, but it was obvious his heart wasn't in it. “sorry,” was all he said for a minute, and then, “you should have left me.”

Whatever reaction they might have been expecting, it sure wasn't that. Frisk was so taken aback that, for a span of several minutes, they couldn't remember how to form words. “... what?”

“don't get me wrong, kid – i'm _grateful_ for what you did.” From where Frisk was standing, he sounded anything _but_. “probably woulda died otherwise, and i like livin' as much as the next skeleton. but...” He trailed off, gaze deliberately settling on a point somewhere over their left ear. “if a situation like that ever comes up again, and you gotta choose between savin' yourself or savin' me... you choose yourself, got it?”

Frisk stood, so suddenly and so angrily that Sans automatically flinched back. They didn't know which was worse – the words themselves, or the utter conviction with which he delivered them. When they found the wherewithal to speak, their voice was surprisingly calm.

“Don't you ever, _ever_ say that to me again, Sans Aster.” They – like most people, really – rarely used his second name, with the result being that it now had the same metaphorical report as the lash of a whip. “You're still recovering. And _because_ you're still recovering, I'm going to give you a pass just this once. Because you can bet your ass that if I thought you could take it, I would have slapped you upside the skull by now.”

And, to their own surprise, Frisk found that they meant it. They'd been a dedicated pacifist almost their whole life, and had endured things that would provoke even the most lackadaisical souls to violence. There were other ways, _better_ ways to deal with things – that's what Frisk had always believed.

But after everything they'd been through this past week, not just physically but mentally too, listening to Sans even _hint_ that they should have just left him... It was too much.

“kid, you're too important. i'm -,”

“I _swear,_ if you say 'expendable' or any variation of it-,” they cut themselves off. They weren't sure how they intended to end that sentence, but they're certain neither they nor Sans would like it. “I won't leave you behind – _ever._ I would never leave someone I love to die, not in a million years. You got that, skeleton?”

Sans seemed to not know what to say to that.

“Well?” they demanded.

“uh...” Frisk glared, daring him to argue. As it turned out, Sans knew better. “yeah, got it.”

“Good.”

* * *

 

In the awkward quiet following their outburst, Sans tried to study Frisk as unobtrusively as possible. They looked... well, tired mostly – there were dark circles around their eyes, and their skin had a sickly pallor he immediately decided he didn't like – but they also looked determined and utterly unapologetic. They'd said it so quickly and so _offhandedly,_ it had almost seemed accidental, but nonetheless the words kept replaying themselves in his head.

“ _I would never leave someone I love to die, not in a million years.”_

When was the last time Frisk had told him – even casually – that they loved him? Hell, when was the last time they'd willingly admitted that they could even tolerate him? He briefly considered bringing it up, but the scowl on their face left him under no illusions; now was not a good time.

Instead, he leaned back against the pillows and simply... thought.

This... had turned out a lot better than he'd been anticipating, honestly. When he'd keeled over after making that shortcut, he seriously hadn't been expecting to ever wake up again. He was glad he'd turned out to be wrong about that, though he supposed if he hadn't been he'd never have known the difference anyway. It did disturb him a little that Frisk had been so willing to put themselves at risk to pull it off, but it would seem that that was a battle for another day.

Time passed, and eventually a young human girl came by with two trays of a delicious-smelling casserole. Tuna, unless he missed his guess – not a favourite, honestly, but considering how groggy he was still feeling, Sans wasn't about to complain. He could tell by the sluggish feel of the magic circulating his bones that Gerson had given him transfusions, which was fine in an emergency even if it felt awful and wrong on just about every level now that he was awake. The only way to change that was to start generating his own magic again, and for that he needed food and rest – upshot being, the girl could have handed him literally anything, and he'd have eaten it regardless.

After a while, he realised the new kid hadn't left and was instead staring at him while he worked his way ravenously through his plate. A glance at Frisk revealed they were still miffed at him, taking tiny delicate bites of their own food while very deliberately not looking in his direction, and so it fell to him to address the elephant (or _human_ ) in the room.

“hey. 'm sans,” he introduced, holding a skeletal hand out but not _really_ expecting her to take it. She surprised him by doing so without even the slightest hesitation.

“Judy,” she replied with a warm smile. Oh yeah – this one was a green soul, Sans just knew it. “It's nice to finally meet you.”

“yeah, uh. same.” He wasn't sure what else to say to the kid, so he simply said nothing.

Judy continued to watch him.

“Sorry, I don't mean to stare,” she said, as Sans returned cautiously to his meal. “You're just... not what I imagined.”

“y'know, i get that a lot. most people expect me ta be much more _sternum_.”

To his surprise and delight, Judy giggled. “Well, I'm glad you seem to have a _funny bone_.”

Sans chuckled. “kid, you an' me are gonna get along just fine.”

“That's no _fibula_!”

“Judy, don't encourage him!” Frisk huffed, but they were smiling a little too.

Judy hung around until they were done and then took their plates. Before she left, Sans asked if she'd mind hunting down his clothes for him – he didn't exactly mind going bare bones, for all that he'd been surprised at first, but it was a sight he imagined few other people would appreciate. He didn't say as much, but there was a lot he needed to do and it would go a lot smoother if he didn't have to be naked while he did it. She cheerfully agreed and then left the room.

“so, uh... do ya happen ta know where my phone is?” he asked of Frisk when Judy was gone.

Wordlessly, Frisk took it from their pocket and handed it to him. Dead. Well, he would expect little else after a whole week. He had his charger in one of his dimension boxes, but to access it he needed the phone powered on. Go figure.

“don't suppose you know if our gracious hosts have a plug that'll fit this thing, do ya?”

“Probably not,” Frisk drawled. “That thing's older than Gerson.”

“um, excuse you? this _beauty_ is only thirty years old.”

“Which is way older than any phone has the right to be.”

“hey, alph custom built these things. 's not my fault none of the newer models can match it.”

Frisk shrugged. He could tell their mood had improved since dinner – he suspected that had more to do with Judy than him – but they were obviously still annoyed with him so he decided quit while he was ahead.

It would take him a day or two to recover enough of his own magic to do another shortcut. At that point, his first priority would be to pay a visit to the nearest electronics shop and cobble together a charger for his phone. Once his phone was back in commission, he could let everyone know that he and Frisk were okay. Since Frisk had left their phone back on the estate, and his own phone was nigh impregnable, he had to assume that they hadn't been able to contact anyone – even assuming their hosts had phones they could have used, he knew Frisk was horrible with numbers. Pap and Undyne had probably lost track of them too, meaning that for the span of a whole week, no one had known where they were.

The situation was... less than ideal.

Still – he was alive, Frisk was alive and, for now at least, they were both safe.

One thing was for damn sure, though; taking care of Avery just got bumped up a couple of spaces in Sans' to-do list. That fiasco on the train had been entirely too close for comfort – clearly, the man was much more resourceful than anybody had even begun to imagine. The way Sans saw it, there was only one course of action still available to them. He'd take Frisk back to the estate, and then he and the gang would go out there and take care of business.

Frisk wouldn't like it, but given everything that had happened already, they were well past the point where he could afford to coddle them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This_ close to graduation. And then I plan to sleep forever.


End file.
